


It Is The Heart That Needs Shelter

by TheFoodIsPoisoned



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Feels, But it's being talked about, Controversial Opinions About Criminality, Controversial Opinions About Murder, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, Implications of Underage Sex, It all happened in the past, M/M, Mentions of Underage Sex, Whump, implications of rape, lots of swearing, may contain homophobic slurs, mentions of non-con/rape, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 39,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10140644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFoodIsPoisoned/pseuds/TheFoodIsPoisoned
Summary: “Five minutes,” he mumbles, “Just five minutes, and I’ll leave.” The warmth of the fire cradles him, sings to him softly, and soon, Murphy is gone.When consciousness comes back to him, the flames are still burning. Yet this time the room feels cold, uninviting, and there's a gun against his head.





	1. Where The Heart Takes You

**Author's Note:**

> *Disclaimer* I do not own the show or any of the characters! This story is purely a work of fiction and none of the events have ever taken place in real life.  
> The prompt for this story belongs to @bellamybx on tumblr!
> 
> *Warnings* Mentions of gagging/chocking from "He coughs..." to "...calmed down."

He is walking down a wide street, battered shoes sliding on the still wet cement, fingers tight as they clench and unclench in his pockets, fidgeting, starving for comfort.

_Starving._

Murphy almost chokes on his own scowl. He glances at his feet- they seem to be moving on their own, dragging his body along against his will. His eyes shift around, _lazily_ , he wants to think – truth is they’re actually frantic.

The street lights turn away as he approaches, they guard their light away from his path, but Murphy barely notices the darkness. The ache in his stomach is taking over most of his senses. Two nights ago he could still hear his insides growling in complaint, so loud that the vibrations reached his throat. Eventually a hollow pain had began to spread all over inside him and in-between his bones. All sounds starting to fade slowly, everything else gradually becoming sort of a blur, seeming too distant to care about.

 

He walks, and the pain now goes deeper with every passing moment. It makes Murphy feel empty, like he’s floating, but it’s painful. There’s a few picks in his pocket and he starts twisting them between his fingers.

The street is quiet. Almost too quiet for his liking, too empty. Part of him is glad – the less life around him, the less possibilities to do anything stupid.

He picks up his pace. The metallic picks start jiggling louder in his pocket. It’s the first sound he notices, then he feels his heart; it’s beating loud. He wonders what caused it. A few meters later, and suddenly, he stops. His eyes dart sideways. The last sound dies in his pocket. His fingers still.

Murphy breathes a chuckle, but it’s nothing pleasant. He turns, eyes landing on the two-story building on the side of the road. Somehow it’s standing out, even with no lights on. Maybe that’s what catches Murphy’s attention in the first place. Or maybe it’s the way it seems to be waiting on the corner of the street, dark and simple, and with a, _hopefully_ , easy-to-violate lock.

He starts walking towards the house, practically rolling his eyes at himself.

Guess he is doing the stupid thing after all.

* * *

Three minutes and a lot of sweat later, Murphy stands up and kicks the door with all his strength. Which.. Honestly, it’s disappointing. The wood barely even rattles. He crouches back down. _He’s done this before,_ he tells himself, _he should be able to do it again._ His hands work with the picks again and he licks his lips in aching concentration.

There’s suddenly the taste of blood on his tongue, and he tries to grind the metallic scent against his teeth. _How long has that been there?_ He doesn’t remember the last time someone punched him. It could’ve been a week ago. It could’ve been yesterday.

Murphy holds his breath, keeping his hands perfectly steady. Then he exhales. The pick moves up and the lock clicks, the handle turns. He would’ve smiled at himself if he hadn’t rushed on his hands and knees to get inside – barely remembering to kick the door closed behind him.

He hurries to the kitchen – somehow knowing exactly how to get there, even though he can’t see past his own nose. Running through the thick veil of darkness, it’s a miracle he doesn’t run into a wall. At first, he stumbles and feels with his hands to find the food, not even bothering to turn on a light. Then he realizes it’d probably be bad to knock something over and end up making a mess, so he grabs a small flashlight from his jeans’ pocket and slams it down on the counter.

_There,_ he thinks, as the weak light struggles to give him a sense of vision, _now where’s the food._

First thing his eyes land on is a bag of crackers and he grabs it in his hands, tears the plastic open, and shoves three of them in his mouth.

He bites down and they break between his teeth. He ignores the stiffness, the salt that bites his lips and focuses on the fact that there’s something solid going down his stomach.

At first, it feels good. Small, slow bites taking him a step closer to sanity. Then Murphy chews on the crackers, faster, harder.

 

Then...Then it gets bad.

 

He coughs, trying to get rid of the stiff, full sensation crowding his mouth. Tiny crumbs travel down and stick at the back of his tongue, scratch his throat like glass shards. The dry bread refuses to move around in his mouth – it becomes something thick, that he can’t breathe through.

The next moment, Murphy is choking, tears prickling at the bottom of his eyes. His hands search frantically around the kitchen until they grab hold of a glass bottle. Whatever it is, it’s liquid, and Murphy downs a few large gulps without hesitation.

 

A moment passes.

 

Then, another.

 

Murphy doubles over and starts coughing violently, his eyes now visibly red and crying, breath knocked out of his lungs. He stumbles back and turns around, gagging and almost vomiting above the sink – _the freaking sink_ – it was right there in front of him all along. He turns the tap on and puts his mouth under the spout, drinking until the fire in him has calmed down.

When he stands, his throat, lungs and guts are burning with a hot that’s almost cold and he has to take small breaths in order to not pass out. He sits down on the hard tiles, with his head on his knees, feeling nauseous and aching all over. He only hopes the residents won’t decide to return any time soon, while he’s unable to hold himself up, let alone fight his way out of the house. Chills run down his spine just at the thought of it.

It takes him only a few minutes, however, to snap out of the pain and – although he’d never admit it – the shock of his _second_ nearly fatal experience with alcohol, when he realizes he’s running out of time. He forces himself up, gripping on the counter for support until his vision clears, and his knees stop shaking. With an arm wrapped around his stomach, Murphy carries on with the task of finding anything edible and preferably non-traumatic, in this goddamned kitchen.

In the end, he settles for chocolate biscuits and a glass of milk. The first cookie he takes out of the packet is a perfect shade of dark brown, decorated with even darker flakes of baked chocolate. It’s round, yet the surface is uneven and cracked. He dips it in the milk, then bites off half of it. The biscuit crunches and breaks under his teeth, then crumbles in his mouth. The chocolate melts on his tongue, and he’s glad no one is there to hear the sound that escapes from deep below his throat. Especially since _murder_ would’ve then been the only appropriate solution.

Murphy wants to take his time savoring the sweet, rich flavor that explodes and engulfs his tongue. To keep hearing the satisfactory _crunch_ just before the delightful taste floods his senses, and the soft, delicious cookie melts like butter in the warmth of his mouth. So enticing, calling him to indulge in the pleasure, yet he knows it’s too dangerous. Time is too much of a luxury right now and he’s already running low on it.

He ends up shoving the biscuits in his mouth, one after another, forcing them down with milk, barely chewing and almost hating himself. At some point he starts drinking straight from the carton just to avoid choking again. On the bright side, he’s only wasted five minutes when he walks out of the kitchen, thankfully remembering to grab the bag of crackers before leaving. He’s about to turn down the hall when something flickers at the corner of his eye, and a warm light coming from the opposite direction catches his attention.

Murphy turns left and carefully starts approaching the light while pocketing the little plastic bag in his sweater. Captivated, he walks up to the warm hues of orange and brown dancing and swaying on the wall across from another room. He approaches cautiously and peeks around the corner, only to find a living room with two couches around a wooden coffee table and a sofa next to a wide fireplace.

Murphy frowns as he slowly steps into the room. _Was there a fire burning when he first came in here?_ He hadn’t payed much attention to his surroundings, that’s true. But he’s pretty sure he’d have noticed something making so much light when he _almost_ ran into a wall. No, this fire was definitely not here ten minutes ago.

He takes a tentative step further into the room, eyes searching around warily, hands itching for a weapon. He studies the fireplace, mostly looking for a poker, and that’s when he notices. He tilts his head, eyebrows set in a frown. _Is that fireplace..real?_ Murphy gets closer, and as he does, he starts to notice the machinery that’s only an imitation of real wood. His fingertips touch the glass, then gradually his whole palm rests on it. _It’s cool_ , he realizes, amazed. He knows, of course, what an electric fireplace is, it’s just that he’s never seen one up close before.

Murphy stands up, letting out a relieved breath, and all the adrenaline instantly fades. He takes a step, brings his hands above the fireplace. _Warm._ It tingles on his skin, dives through the cold, hard barricade and reaches his bones, engulfs them like a blanket that brings them together, soothing and calm. Something in him suddenly becomes softer. His eyes get heavier, as if an invisible force is pulling them down, and his mind feels fuzzy, transparent.

He drops himself on the sofa, and stays. His eyes are sparkling against the flames, the colors shift and dance and burn in them. Murphy lets his eyelids fall, and pretends.

He pretends that he’s home – that he has a home. That this sofa is his, no one can grab him by the hair and kick him out in the cold. He pretends there’s someone who cares; he’s walking through that door right now and has no intention to hurt him. He pretends that this body belongs to him, and only him; that his parents never died, he never killed them, and they love him. Murphy pretends. And as he does, it becomes harder and harder to lift his eyelids.

“Five minutes,” he mumbles, but he’s not sure if he even makes a sound, if his lips move at all. “Just five minutes, and I’ll leave.” He doesn’t know whether he’s begging himself or the house to not hate him for staying.

After all, it’s just five minutes. He only pleads to be let to feel human for five minutes.

The warmth cradles him, sings to him softly, and Murphy is gone.

* * *

When consciousness starts to come back to him, the flames are still burning. But this time the room is cold, uninviting. A threat hangs in the air and Murphy inhales it. Reality knocks down on him too hard, and in an instant he realizes where he is, what he’s done, and the reason why he’s now awake. It’s pressing against his forehead, cold and round and hard. There’s a _click_ and his eyes shoot open wide, his muscles lock.

He’s suddenly met with a tall man with dark skin and eyes fierce and glowing; arms big and strong and trained, they could so easily _crush_ Murphy, use him, then tear him apart.

“Who the hell are you and why the fuck are you here?” a deep, vibrating voice growls, and Murphy just shatters.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! 
> 
> Please don't forget to Kudos and comment!


	2. Blue Eyes Don't Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John Murphy,” he gulps dryly and forces his lips into a smirk, breaking the terror on his face. “at your service.” 
> 
> “Are you now?” Bellamy asks, only to test. 
> 
> The smile trembles, but doesn’t falter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much RegeneratingDegenerate, blackmaggiecat, OverlyStressedWriter, tentaclehub. Your commends make my day!
> 
> *WARNINGS* descriptive mention of vomiting from "Murphy jumps to his feet..." to "..a foul taste in his mouth."

After spending a hellish day at the office trying to figure out the puzzling deaths of three civilians, the last thing Bellamy wants to have to deal with upon returning home is to find his front door unlocked. With a course on his lips, he draws out his gun and steps inside the house, moving silently and pointing his gun from room to room, until he reaches the end of the hall and turns to the living-room. His eyes grow big as they land on the body lying on the sofa. He waits a moment, but there’s still no movement, no indication that the person is conscious and able to hear him.

Bellamy approaches with careful steps, stopping in front of the sofa, gun raised in front of him.

He’s met with a boy; young-looking, probably a teenager, but with features raw and hardened. His chest moves up and down as he breathes calmly, sleeping. Bellamy frowns, takes his time to study the unaware invader. Old clothes, dirty jeans, shoes with holes in them; a small, fragile silhouette that’s maybe a little too thin away from healthy. A bruise decorates his right cheekbone and there’s a cut under his left eye. His lips are chopped, bloody, fixed in a faint pout, eyebrows coming down to add to the distressed, uncomfortable expression he’s wearing.

However, Bellamy still positions the gun against the boy’s head and watches as he starts to come around. He cocks the safety back, ready for anything, when a pair of fierce dark blues appear behind the gun to stare into his own sharp browns. He’s almost surprised when the boy doesn’t attempt to escape. Instead, his muscles lock, body going completely still, fearful eyes looking up, glowing.

“ _Who the hell are you and why the fuck are you here?_ ” he demands with a voice thick, gravely.

 

Murphy stares at the man in uniform, almost afraid to breathe too much. How long has he been sleeping? Had the residents returned home and immediately called the police upon seeing him? _Rude,_ Murphy thinks. They could have at least given him a chance to run.

“What’s in your pocket?” The man twists the gun abruptly and Murphy tries really hard not to piss himself.

“I didn’t steal anything, I swear.” He says, voice strangely straight, and draws his hands from his pockets. A few crackers slip through the opening and fall onto the sofa. Murphy stares at them, so does the man. _Shit._

“Uh, I–”

“Who are you?” the man demands, his voice deep, threatening. Murphy’s scared he might drown.

He takes a breath. He’s already screwed and he knows it.

“John Murphy,” he gulps dryly and forces his lips into a smirk, breaking the terror on his face. “at your service.” And the way he says it just sounds _wrong_.

“Are you now?” Bellamy asks, only to test.

The smile trembles, but doesn’t falter.

Bellamy purses his lips, taken aback by the silent reply. He shakes his head once, dark eyes pinning the boy down on his seat. _He can’t mean it._ Bellamy sees the smirk on the boy’s lips, the rushed mask that shouldn’t look so perfect, so _wrong._ He notices the strained movements of his chest – as if he’s trying to keep his lungs still as well. Under the sly smile, his jaw is set and hard. His hands are still raised; if Bellamy concentrates, he can see they are shaking.

His glance falls momentarily on the crackers laying on the sofa and on the boy’s lap. When he looks back up, Murphy’s still staring at him, his eyes big and wet and glowing against the light of the fire, the corner of his lips curled upwards. It makes Bellamy’s heart twist, sends a punch right in his gut.

“What do you want?” he asks, even though he’s the one holding a gun to the other’s head.

“Right now, or from life in general?” Murphy is proud when his voice doesn’t break once.

It seems to tick the man off. 

The officer almost flinches, opens his mouth to speak, but Murphy beats him to it.

“I stole food.” he states, tone as cold as his glare, “But I didn’t take anything else, I didn’t _hurt_ anyone. Ask the residents.” Murphy makes a mental note that he should, really, hurt very much the residents, if he’s able to walk out of this in one piece.

The man studies him and there’s suddenly a glint in his dark eyes, it’s not even subtle. Murphy can’t read what it means, but he’s got an idea. _Get it the fuck over with,_ he growls in his head. The food he ate has already started twisting in his stomach, and he feels the urge to puke.

Then the man locks the gun and retracts it in the case around his belt. Murphy squints in confusion, and a fair amount of suspicion. A little voice in his head screams this is his chance to run. He tucks it away with all the other things, and waits.

“I’m the residents.” The man declares, the ghost of a smirk appearing on the corner of his lips.

Murphy’s eyes slowly grow wide, “What?” he asks, just in case he didn’t understand right.

“This is my house.” Bellamy states, crossing his arms above his chest. He watches as the other’s features tighten at the realization. A moment later, he’s starting to worry that the boy’s heart might’ve stopped, when a wild smirk abruptly breaks on his lips.

Murphy grins widely, bloody lips stretching over white teeth. It looks odd, unnatural on his face. He lets his body fall back, sink in the sofa.

“Of course it is.” he lets out a strangled chuckle. Of course something like this would happen to him. Out of hundreds of houses in this goddamned city, it sounds just like Murphy’s life that he’d pick a policeman’s one to break into, and then decide to get reckless and caught. The grin shifts into a violent sneer. Fucking hell, Murphy would break something, maybe his knuckles against a wall, if he wasn’t so afraid of getting shot. When he looks back up at the man, his eyes are red and stinging and tearless. He forces every drop back, down his throat. When he speaks, he sounds braver than he feels.

“So, what do you want me to do to settle this?”

Bellamy huffs, “Settle this? You broke into my house, I gotta take you in.”

“But you won’t. Or I’d already be in handcuffs.” Murphy points out, the persistent smirk making Bellamy uncomfortable. “Just tell me what you want me to do to make up for the food I stole. I’ll do it.” he swallows thickly.

“That’s not how this works.” Bellamy doesn’t know why he keeps pushing. In his mind he’s already decided that he doesn’t want to hurt the boy, punish him. _Hell,_ he almost feels bad for him. So why doesn’t he just let go?

“ _Right._ ” Murphy mumbles through gritted teeth. It’s bad enough that he ran into a cop, it also has to be a _righteous_ one.

 _It’s alright,_ Murphy thinks. There’s a monster inside everyone. You just need to poke it the right way. “Well then, I guess I’m out of here.” He says and starts to stand up.

“Stay down.” the man growls, stepping in front if him. The voice rings through Murphy’s bones; deep, thunderous, a threat clinging on the edge of it. Murphy slumps himself back down, a smug grin on his face, as if the other had just stepped into a trap.

For a moment, no one speaks. Tension has filled the air, thick, crackling, like electricity. Murphy can practically feel the sparks across his skin. And he’s always been good at setting fires.

He clenches his fist before he opens his mouth, “You gonna do something, or are you just gonna keep me here to stare at?” He wonders if he’s immune to the poison that swells on his tongue, or if he’s just learned to like the sting after all this time.

The man almost flinches, grits his teeth and forces himself to take a step back, to keep his hands to his sides. _There it is,_ Murphy grins like he has won. But apparently his stomach doesn’t agree with him. It twists, turns over to get his attention. He chooses to ignore it, just like he’s done all the other times.

“Get up.” the man says abruptly. Murphy shoots him a glare, and raises from his seat, nonchalantly, as if his heart isn’t trembling in his chest. “Hands over your head.” he barks gruffly and Murphy obeys.

Bellamy steps closer and starts patting the boy down, his hands traveling from his chest to his hips and down to his legs, until he has retrieved the bag of food, the picks and a flashlight from his sweater, a pocket knife and a lighter from his jeans.

Murphy feels the pair of hands sliding all over his body, rough, wrinkling his thin clothing, touching here and there, around and below his waist, down his thighs, snaking inside his pockets, slowly, taking hold of his little possessions and dragging them out. The man holds up the knife, standing a little too close, looking over at him accusingly, and Murphy lets a moment pass before he drops his glance from him to the sharp tool.

“First time seeing one of those?” he looks back up, a certain authority glowing in his eyes, like he’s done this before a thousand times. “Or did you think I come from the playground down the street this whole time?” The man’s jaw clenches, his eyes shift, becoming something hard and dangerous, shaking the bravery right out of Murphy’s heart, and for once he wishes his mouth would’ve stayed shut.

He’s waiting for something to happen, probably for his bones to start breaking, when suddenly the man looks away. A moment later he clenches his fists. Murphy prepares to bring down his hands to protect himself, feeling the beating of his heart echo all through his ribcage. Part of him wonders if the man can hear it, too; if it would even make a difference.

Bellamy exhales sharply, looking back up. And as he does, something heavy drops in his chest. He lowers his glance, tosses the knife behind him, forcing himself to step away from the trembling boy. _Has he even realized it?_ He wonders. His hands are shaking where they are raised, the smirk now looking more of a tight line, trembling as if biting back a whimper. 

“You can sit down.” he rasps, something thick swelling deep in his throat.

Murphy lets out a chuckle to mask the sigh of relief, but even that is breathy. He obeys, lips curling into a sneer. “Man, do you take ‘taking it slow’ to a whole new level.” His gut twists abruptly, and he keeps reminding himself there’s a reason why he’s doing this.

“Stop.” Bellamy utters, voice dropping an octave. Somehow it sounds a lot less like a demand, a lot more like a plea. For Murphy, it doesn’t make a difference.

“Why, does it make you uncomfortable?” The words roll off his tongue and Bellamy can feel them in his throat.

“You could’ve left.” he says, voice thick in his mouth. “Why did you stay?”

Murphy’s heart stills at the question before it restarts again. He bents a little forward, half-shrugs, clenching his hands into tight fists to keep them from flying over his aching stomach.

“It was late.” he utters, “Nobody was here yet so I figured I had till morning.” It’s an easy lie, maybe too easy. His guts turn and a funny taste swells in his mouth.

“Right. You thought you had time so you fell asleep in the living-room.” Bellamy snorts, “That’s bullshit.”

“Whatever you say, _sir_.” Murphy sneers, lips curling bitterly around the word. The mask threatens to break as his stomach turns upside down, and he’s struggling to keep the food below his throat.

“Listen, kid. You don’t strike me as a criminal-”

“You don’ know a thing ‘bout me.” Murphy grits his teeth.

“– _or_ someone who’s stupid.” That gains him a glare from the boy. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you gotta-”

“Stop.” Murphy says suddenly, “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

The man looks like he’s just over the last straw, “Fuck’s sake.” he breathes sharply, “You know what- Just get the hell out of here.”

“No,” Murphy chokes out, arms wrapping around his stomach. “No, I’m not– I need to get to the bathroom–” he doubles over, bringing a hand over his mouth.

It takes Bellamy approximately the split of a second to go from angry, to puzzled, to genuinely afraid for the boy. “The door next to the kitchen,” he utters, goes to help him stand up.

Murphy jumps to his feet, all but shoving the man's extended hand aside, and rushes out of the room and down the hall. He falls to his knees and bents over the toilet bowl, hands gripping tightly on each side. Bellamy stops at the door just when the boy’s whole body jerks, and out of his mouth spill his insides. The contents of his stomach surge up to his throat, muscles contracting violently again and again. He heaves and spits, until his throat feels sore, and there’s only clean liquid coming up. His stomach turns over one last time and Murphy relaxes his grip around the toilet bowl, lets his weight drop from his shoulders to his knees. His sides are aching, hands trembling, and there’s a foul taste in his mouth.

“C’mon,” He hears the man call softly beside him. He glances sideways and sees that he’s holding a glass of water for him. Murphy tentatively wraps his hands around the glass, takes a sip and spits it in the toilet. He repeats the process a few times, even though it does little difference at how disgusting his mouth feels. When he’s done, the man refills half a glass for him. This time, Murphy drinks it, wondering why the kind treatment, although he’s thankful for it.

“How much did you eat?” Bellamy asks, standing over the boy.

“A packet of biscuits.” Murphy replies miserably. On the bright side, now that the food is out of his stomach, maybe he’ll be allowed to leave.

“A whole packet?” The man sounds more surprised than angry.

“And half a carton of milk.” Murphy looks up, his eyes red and teary and looking sick. He knows he must look pathetic, but something in him still makes him raise his eyes, stare directly into the other's, “I was hungry.” He says and holds the contact for a moment. Brown orbs stare back at him; they look like earth, and like fire. Something warm.

Then he breaks his glance away, eyes falling on his lap. Suddenly he’s feeling weak, over-tired. “And I also drunk, like, half a bottle of whatever alcohol you have in there.”

Bellamy frowns, crosses his arms, “Why?” he asks.

“Why do you think? It was dark. I thought it was water.” The man doesn’t look like he believes him completely, but then again, he’s not straddling Murphy for drinking his booze, so it’s okay. He’s starting to feel the exhaustion taking over as time passes, and he doesn’t know what to do to stop it. His eyes look dazed, muscles feeling stiff, heavy, like he couldn’t move them if he tried.

Bellamy notices that talking is becoming an effort for the boy. His voice now sounds croaked, dragged out with a breath, as if his lungs are getting tired. He watches him as he tries to push himself up, first pushing on his hands, then willing his knees to unlock and straighten. He takes a step, then stumbles over.

Bellamy is quick to catch him before he hits the floor. “Alright, take it easy.” he soothes, crossing an arm behind his back to support his weight.

“You gonna let me go now?” Murphy asks, lips barely moving. What concerns Bellamy is that he probably actually means it.

“Come on.” He says and helps the boy out of the bathroom. He guides him down the hall and up some stairs. Murphy suddenly remembers that this is not where the door is.

“Where 'r you taking me?” he mumbles, head tilting a little towards Bellamy’s shoulder.

“The bed.” The other states and Murphy almost instantly freezes.

“Wait, no.” He panics in his haze, eyes instantly becoming alert. He turns to the man, and he has to tilt his head up to meet his eyes. “Why?” He asks, and suddenly he's all too aware of the the other's arms all over his body.

“Because you need rest.” the man replies easily, locking eyes with him. “I’m not letting you go like this.” he says. Murphy can somehow see a genuine kindness there. He doesn’t understand it, barely even believes it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t make use of it, for now at least.

Bellamy reads the silence as an agreement, and guides the boy the rest of the way. He takes him inside a room and helps him sit down on the double-sized bed placed on the right corner. Murphy can’t see much, apart from the bed and a desk, since the closest source of light is currently a lone lamp at the hall. He does see, however, as the man crouches down and proceeds to remove his shoes, long fingers wrapping carefully around his thin ankles. Suddenly, Murphy is glad, really glad, that the dim light can’t reach his burning cheeks, and again, when the man helps him under the blankets. Strong hands envelope his shoulders, cup his dirty hair, guiding his body down gently and then pulling the covers over him, over his dirty clothes, like it doesn't matter.

He’s expecting the man to leave, when the other pulls the chair from the desk, positions it towards the bed and sits down, instead.

 

_A moment passes._

 

“What are you doing?” Murphy asks warily.

“You are going through a hell of a hangover. You might need to vomit again.” Bellamy explains, simply.

“I know where the bathroom is.” the other retorts.

Bellamy crosses his arms, “It’s not about that.” he says, “I need to make sure you won’t drown in your sleep.”

The words bite Murphy, they leave a wound that stings, and he wishes the man would’ve said anything other than that. He falls silent, swallows thickly around the sudden lump in his throat, eyes big and sparkling under the black cloak that covers the room.

“I didn’t know.” His voice cracks and Murphy wants the dark to swallow him.

“What?” The man asks.

He doesn’t know why it’s so important, why it even matters so much that he says it. This man is a no one to him, hell, he doesn’t even know his _name_. Yet he can’t shake the ache sitting on his chest, until he says it. “I didn’t know it was alcohol.” his voice comes out clear this time, honest.

He can feel the man staring; penetrating dark eyes studying him from across the room, as if they’re trying to go past his skin, read his soul. “Okay.” finally comes the reply, more than it seems and more than Murphy ever expected. It rings in the air; deep, and tender, a fond smile sitting on the edge of it, like it’s more of a praise than a simple acknowledgment. Something warm and foreign spreads under Murphy’s bones, but he’s too tired to care.

He breathes, and his chest feels lighter.

He’s almost asleep, when the man speaks again. “Why’d you stay?” he asks. Murphy hears the voice in his head, vibrating, intoxicant. He wants to fight it, but doesn’t even try. In the end, the answer rolls off his lips, “It was warm.” he says.

The darkness calls to him, cradles him away from anything real. And for once, it’s soft.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't forget to Kudos and leave a comment! Tell me what you think so far and what you expect will happen!
> 
> Until next time, you can come say hi to my [Tumblr](http://richard-harmon-gifs.tumblr.com)!


	3. The Prince And The Beggar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy snorts, “Sure. You just care about me, right?”
> 
> “What if I do?”
> 
> “You don't.”  
>  
> 
> OR
> 
>    
> Bellamy has a dangerous idea.  
> Murphy is really bad at deductions but, honestly, who can blame him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your nice comments! \^o^/
> 
> ((((this week's episode was NOT OKAY someone needs to hug poor Murph))))

The first time Murphy comes awake there's a stabbing pain in his stomach, bubbles building up his throat. He feels a presence near him, "Bathroom." he mumbles and the next moment he's kneeling above the toilet, spilling his insides.

The second time that he jolts and pushes back the covers, he doesn't manage to say anything. There's already an arm around him, clutching on his waist, dragging him on his feet and out through the hallway. Murphy wants to protest but the disgusting taste that's swells in his mouth tells him it's a bad idea. He falls to his knees, and the man holds his hair. His body shakes, lips trembling, and there's a lulling sound coming from above his head, hushing, soft like nothing ever is to him, "It's okay. It’s okay, it's over." The words flow smoothly in the air and Murphy tries to catch them before they fade.

The next time, he barely has the strength to sit up. The man tries to guide him to his feet, but Murphy gives him a pleading look, eyes tired and sick and on the verge of tears. Pathetic. It's the only thing he hears from the haziness inside his mind. It wears his mother's voice and Murphy lowers his head, throat tight and stinging. The next moment he feels a pair of hands engulfing him, arms wrapping around his frame like a blanket, then lifting him off the bed. The man walks down the hall, holding him gently, as if he weighs nothing.

Murphy tilts his head, his nose touching against the nape of his neck, and he inhales, the radiating warmth filling his lungs, cradling his bones. He breathes again, and it smells of coffee and wet fern and wine dancing down his throat, soothing to the war in his stomach.

The man lets him down and Murphy parts his lips, muscles contracting violently. By the end of it he’s holding a toothbrush in his hand. He doesn’t know where it came from, but that doesn’t stop him from using it. Once. Twice. Until the awful taste is banished at the far back of his throat. Then he’s being carried back to the bed, his senses drifting away before his head even touches the pillow.

 

Bellamy spends the next few hours watching Murphy in his sleep, captured by the way his delicate frame moves as he breathes quietly, his hair falling above his eyelids, wild strands hiding his face. Sometimes he rubs his nose against the pillow to get rid of the annoyance, and Bellamy finds himself smiling fondly. In the end, he finds the courage to stand up and approach him, taking his hair and pulling them back gently, tucking a few strands behind his ear. There’s something so calm, so familiar and right about the warmth that spreads in his chest as he watches him, making sure he’s safe, that Bellamy doesn’t even bother to question it at the moment.

By the time he decides to leave, it’s already early in the morning.

He heads back to the living room, lying down on the couch, purposefully ignoring the few crackers still laying on the floor, the knife sitting on the carpet. He breathes in the silence, the stiffness in his bones relaxing, exhaustion pouring in his veins as if some barrier just broke down. Yet his mind keeps running in circles, eyes refusing to welcome the darkness, wondering around the room, darting from the few of the boy’s possessions to the ceiling and then back.

It doesn’t take Bellamy long to realize that sleep is impossible.

When the first rays of sunlight break through the window behind the couch, he’s still awake. The light hits his eyes, swirling playfully against the dark brown, in his gaze flowing streams of honey and cinnamon and gold. He sits up a moment later, dragging his feet to the kitchen and then making coffee.

When he drinks, it’s too hot, bitter, the taste biting his tongue. He takes another sip, leaning against the counter.

There’s still biscuit crumbs on the table and drop-stains of milk and Bellamy stares. He stares until his eyes hurt and his vision starts to lose its focus. He blinks, and when he looks away, a thought has planted itself deep in his system. He sips from the coffee, as if trying to drown the rogue idea, reason with it to leave him, only to find out that this, too, is impossible.

With a sigh on his lips he returns to the living room, spending the rest of his morning cleaning up, reading a book, watching tv, anything that might keep him busy. Around noon, he decides to cook lunch, but even that isn’t enough to lift the blanket of thick silence that follows Bellamy in every corner of the house. There’s a stillness hanging in the air, the kind that makes your hair itch and your ears to swim with static noise, and it’s driving Bellamy insane. He leaves the rise and chicken in the pot and takes himself upstairs.

When he checks on the boy, the room is still dark, the curtains holding back the light, and Murphy’s asleep, breathing softly with his head buried under the covers. Bellamy wonders if he’s cold, if his old clothes provide any warmth at all. He slides another blanket over him, turns up the heating in the hallway just in case, and then returns to the living room. He searches around the room, looking to do something, anything, to divert his attention from the achingly quiet house that he’s grown so unfamiliar with over the past few months.

There’s a photo standing above the fireplace and he takes it in his hands, smiling sadly at the sight of sparkling olive eyes and shoulder-length midnight hair.

It was less than a week since his sister had left, Bellamy remembers, that he started to realise that nothing in the house was the same, nothing was ever quite right. Mornings didn’t smell like coffee and sun and smiling lips wishing him a good day, a safe day. Afternoons never again sounded like hot baths and rock music beating low and laughter so alive the universe would feel embarrassed. When night came, nothing was soft and beautiful and worth looking forward to wake up to. It was just tiredness, exhaustion and stiff, aching bones. The fire was cold compared to how he used to feel when he held her hand, waiting for sleep to claim her, it was cold and Bellamy felt his heart shiver, then slowly grow distant.

The days started to become a blur of work and sleepless nights and a life passing him by, while he tried to concentrate on anything, only to see it fading too, right before his eyes.

Bellamy wonders how other people can stay alone, enjoy the odd silence in their homes, and it’s funny. He thinks of home and he sees bright green eyes sparkling with diamonds and waves of black hair, swirling under the sun, dancing between his fingers. He understands then; when his sister left, she took home with her.

Bellamy breathes, shaking his head as he drops himself on the couch, tilting his head back to stare at the white ceiling.

Suddenly there’s as shuffling sound, something creaks above his head. It’s soft, Bellamy would’ve missed it if it wasn’t for his ears straining to feel a sound. Then he hears it again, this time followed by a loud thud, and the next seconds he’s on his feet, skipping the stairs two at a time.

* * *

A loud pain shrieks in his head the moment he opens his eyes. Murphy winces, tilting his head to the side. It’s heavy, feeling hot, the pain pulsing in his ears. The first thing he notices is that there’s a bed beneath him and he’s almost startled. He moves around a little, feeling the comfortable mattress shift under his weight. The pillow is soft against his cheek, the covers warm, smelling of coffee and chocolate. For a moment, he stays unmoving, trying to recall what happened, then he realizes.

He sits up with a jolt, only to be forced back down on his elbows, the sudden pain piercing through his head, digging in like needles. He bites his lip to hold back a whimper. When he opens his eyes again, everything is dark and blurry and spinning.

He tries to focus his vision, searching warily around the unfamiliar room, feeling his heart beating in his throat. The memories from last night come to him in pieces, images that are not in quite the right order. He remembers a man, tall, all dark skin and muscle and a thunderous voice, and his gaze falls on his lap. He holds his breath, gripping the covers and snatching them back.

Murphy relaxes, chest heaving down to release a long breath. His jeans are still on his legs, tight around his waist, and he feels like thanking someone, forgetting that he’s not supposed to be grateful for not being used.

He tries once again to sit up, wondering if the man is still in the house, if he can somehow sneak past him and leave. He considers making a run for it. He remembers the way, he thinks. The man would certainly be too startled to stop him. Murphy would be out of the door in no time and the man wouldn’t bother to chase him down. It sounds like a good plan, in his head, and he would’ve set it in motion, if it wasn’t for the stabbing pain that spread in his gut the moment his feet touched the floor.

Murphy takes a breath, coursing softly.

 

_Sneaking past him it is._

 

He braces himself, then attempts to stand up, only to stumble and fall to his knees a step later. He grips on the chair near him, gritting his teeth and pushing himself up, yet his legs are too tired to carry his weight. They give out beneath him and Murphy tumbles over, knocking down the chair as well.

Before he has time to do anything, the door bursts open and a bright light floods the room. Murphy covers his eyes, his head pounding loudly at the sudden exposure and he crawls back on his elbows, trying to get away until his back hits the bed and he can’t get any further.

Suddenly there are hands on his shoulders and Murphy struggles under the touch.

“Easy. It’s okay.” the man says, his voice soothing, warm sun and daises. “It’s okay. Calm down.”

Bellamy hushes the startled boy, mentally coursing himself for running inside the room without any warning. When Murphy finally opens his eyes, they look exactly as they did yesterday; afraid, suspicious, glowing as if there’s always tears underneath the ash and blue. His gaze falls on the hands holding his shoulder, then he looks up, jaw clenching threateningly.

Bellamy retracts his hands to his sides, as if a wolf had just bared his teeth at him.  
 

“What happened?” he asks, noticing the fallen chair in the middle of the room.  
 

“It was dark. I just stumbled over.” Murphy lies easily, as last night slowly comes back to him. He glances up at the man and the same look is there, concerned, knowing, as if he can read right through his lies and he’s pondering whether to call him out or leave him be. Murphy is actually grateful when he chooses the latter.

“How are you feeling?” Bellamy changes the subject and the boy seems to relax across him. He sits upright, bringing his knees near his chest.

“Fine.” Murphy mumbles, fidgeting with a ripped hole in his jeans.

The ghost of a smile appears on Bellamy’s lips, “Besides that.” he jokes.

Murphy shoots him a glare, “I’m fine.”

The man looks at him. A moment later, he stands up, “Good,” he says, “Come on, I’ve made lunch.” he starts to walk out of the room.

“Wait,” Murphy stops him at the door and the other turns around, but he doesn’t move any further, waiting for him to speak, as if he doesn’t already know exactly what Murphy needs. “I –” the boy starts, but then he exhales, cold and stone shifting in his glance. “Forget it.” he utters and instead forces himself to stand up, gripping on the bed for support.

  
Murphy takes a few steps, ignoring the black spots flowing on the edges of his vision, the piercing pain as the light hits his eyes. He walks past the man, out of the room and down the hallway; he stops at the top of the stairs. The earth is moving under his feet, his balance wavering slightly. He feels his grip around the railing loosening, his body slipping, tugging forward. He thinks he can see himself lying at the bottom of the staircase.

An arm suddenly slips across his back and grips him tightly, while a hand is placed on his chest, preventing him from falling. Murphy leans his weight in the touch, it’s unintentional, necessary; the feeling of helplessness spreads like a dull pain in his chest. He expects the older man to mock him, laugh at him for even pretending to be strong.

“It’s alright.” is all he says as he lets Murphy rest against him. “Com’on. I got you.”

They walk to the kitchen and the man lets him sit in a chair. Murphy doesn’t say anything, he simply holds his throbbing head in his hands, struggling to channel the air in and out of his lungs.

“You alright?” the man asks, and the concern in his voice is starting to irritate Murphy.  
 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “It’s just. Bright.”  
 

It’s all it takes for Bellamy to start speeding from room to room, pulling every curtain closed, turning off all the bright lights. When he’s done, he returns to the kid’s side.

“Better?” he asks and Murphy nods, opening his eyes slowly.

The man places two pills beside him and a glass of water. He glances at them warily, “What’s that?” he asks.

“Painkillers.” the man replies and Murphy doesn’t need further explanation to take them in his mouth and gulp them down, drinking the water hungrily.

When he looks up, the man is turned around, preparing two dishes with food, then setting one down in front of Murphy. The boy stares at it for a long minute, not daring to pick up the fork, then glances back up at the man, who’s eating by the counter. In his blue eyes swims a question and the other catches it before he even has to word it.

“That’s for you,” Bellamy assures as if it isn’t obvious enough. The boy is looking at him uncertainly, hesitating to believe him. “Murphy, come on.” he sighs softly.

Murphy glances down, hands straining to stay at his sides, and suddenly a slow smile spreads on his lips.

“Nah, I’m good.” he says, keeping his hands away from the table.

“Murphy,” Bellamy starts, setting down his own plate and walking over to stand across the boy. “What’s the problem?”

Murphy doesn’t reply. He simply stares at the man, expecting him to give up, order him to get out of his house, just–  _Treat him like any normal person would_.

“And don’t say that you’re not hungry.” he continues, “Anyone would be starving after last night.”

Murphy scolds, “The problem.” he drags through his teeth, words laced with poison, “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Now it’s the man’s turn to squint his eyes in puzzlement.

“What do you want?” Murphy demands.

“Right now, I just want you to eat your food.” Bellamy says.

“And later?” Murphy’s gaze is sharp, making the other flinch. “You let me stay here, sleep in your bed, making sure I don’t die, you _cook_ for me...You want something.”

“I want you to not pass out on me, can you do that?” Bellamy says sternly, locking eyes with the younger boy. He’s right and they both know it. Murphy is drained from last nigh, his skin paler than usual, his eyes dazed and losing focus almost constantly. And the fact that he’s been starving for the past three days doesn’t help his situation at all.

The silence between them drags on for a long minute, both glaring into the other’s eyes and refusing to let up, the tension filling the air like a bubble that’s ready to bursts, until Murphy clenches his jaw, then grabs his pitchfork, shoving a piece of chicken in his mouth.

“Happy?” he exclaims, mouth full as he starts to bite the food.  
 

Bellamy kind-of-shrugs, “I don’t know. You like it?”  
 

Murphy chews slowly, the aroma of vegetables exploding in his mouth, laced with the taste of almond and cherry, as the soft chicken melts on his tongue. The smug look soon fades in his eyes. “Yeah..” he admits almost softly.

The smile that breaks on Bellamy’s lips is joyous, brilliant. It lightens up his whole face, the brown in his eyes turning brighter, more vibrant, alive. Murphy suddenly feels warm inside. He recalls the feeling from last night, and he doesn’t understand it. If he’s being honest with himself, it scares him. And that’s why he pushes it at the far back of his mind, hoping to never see it again.

The man goes back near the counter, grabbing his own plate, and for a while no one speaks, the only sounds being those of metal scraping against porcelain. As the silence proceeds, something starts tugging on the edges of Bellamy’s mind. He tries to ignore it, but in the end it’s just pointless. He takes a breath,

“How’s your stomach?” he asks. The boy raises his glance, gulping down the food in his mouth.

“It’s f–” Murphy stops himself, “Better.” he says finally, voice lacking its defensive tone. “Thanks.”

The man simply nods, “What was the last time you ate anything?”

Murphy shoots him a glance, taking a moment to think; not because he doesn't know the answer but because he wonders why the man would even ask. Is he trying to find out if that food was stolen, too? Would he try and use the information against him somehow?

“Just a few days ago.” he replies casually. The man stares at him, an unreadable look in his eyes.

“You’ve been...hungry for days.” he says as if it’s something hard to process.

“It happens.” Murphy nearly snaps, not used to this kind of intrusion.

The man doesn’t say anything. He simply looks down at his plate, looking troubled, almost guilty, and Murphy doesn’t understand a bit of it.

A minute later, Bellamy is the one to break the silence again, “How old are you, Murphy?” he asks, voice deep, quiet.

The other raises an eyebrow, biting the dark chuckle on his tongue, “Well, how about you tell me your name first?” he says, “If you don't mind, officer.”

Bellamy stares, lips curling into a thin smile. He clears his throat, “Of course. Sorry.” he says, “It’s Bellamy.”

“Bellamy,” the boy tastes the name between his teeth, “What do you want?”

The other shakes his head at the question, “I told you, I don't want anything.”

Murphy snorts, “Sure. You just care about me, right?”  
 

“What if I do?”  
 

"You don't."

His eyes are cold, reminding of rain and marble. “You don't even know me.” he says, “I’m just a thief, right?”

“You’re not at the police station, are you?”

“There are worse ways to punish someone.” he utters. Bellamy’s heart freezes.

A sharp breath later, and then, “Is that what you’re afraid of?” he asks, and his voice is soft, “That I’m going to hurt you, over some food?”

Murphy merely shrugs, “It’s what people do, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t.” the other replies and Murphy hates the sad look in his eyes.

“Whatever you say, officer.” he sighs, leaning back into the chair.

Bellamy blinks, looking away, the gears in his mind turning, but never fast enough to figure out the puzzle in front of him. It seems to be happening a lot lately. “You got somewhere to stay?” he turns his gaze back to the boy.

Murphy squints, lips pursing into a thin line. “No..” he says, the suspicion evident in his voice.

“No? Nobody you can stay with?” the other insists.

“No.” Murphy replies flatly, maybe a moment too fast.

“What about your parents?”

" _No._ "

But the man's stare won't let up.

“They are dead.” Murphy's voice is tight, straining, leaving bloody marks in his throat.

“Okay,” Bellamy nods, his voice low. He sets his plate down, “You can stay here. Until you’re feeling better.”

If the other doesn’t laugh, it’s probably because he doesn’t remember how. “You’re kidding me, right?” he huffs, but he can see it in the man’s eyes that he isn’t. His smile starts to fade; it turns into stretched lips and teeth bared, but there’s no smile. "No. No way."

“Murphy–”

“No.” he snaps, “Not interested in becoming anyone’s charity case. Thank you.”

Bellamy breathes, because he’s afraid of what he might do if he doesn't. In his head, he’s already calculating the years of prison he’d get if he killed whoever responsible for turning a kid into this. And he knows Murphy is scared, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to let go.

“It’s either here or the hospital.” he says, “Your choice.”

Murphy is looking at him like he hates his guts. Bellamy can sympathise.

"Aren’t policemen not supposed to play dirty or something?” he scoffs.

“I’m sure they are,” Bellamy muses, “But I'm not one of those.”

“No, of course you’re not.” Murphy mutters under his breath. He looks away then back at the man, “Okay, fine. Whatever.” he exclaims. “What am I supposed to do, clean the house? Do your chores?” _Keep you warm…_

“Rest.” Bellamy says, starting to put on his uniform, “You can eat whatever you like. But you should avoid anything too hot, or too cold. It won’t be good for your stomach.” He walks to the living room to grab his belt, and Murphy can still hear him from down the hall.

“There’s food in the fridge, and in the cupboards,” he comes to stand under the doorway, “But I guess you already know that.”

“Where you going?” Murphy asks, ignoring the comment.

“Work.” Bellamy utters, taking his gun from the drawer under the sink. “People will start calling.” he says, and by _people_ he means one certain person.

“Ow, wait, wait–” Murphy stops him, raising from his seat, “You’re just gonna let me stay here?”

“That’s the idea.” the boy stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“I don't think you're a thief,” Bellamy takes a step closer.

  
Then another.

  
And another.

  
Until he’s standing right in front of the smaller boy.

  
Murphy feels the urge to back away. He almost tries, too, only to find out that his feet are rooted in place and his legs refuse to move. They’re standing close, and his heart is beating loud in his chest, their eyes lock, sparkling, surreal; like the sky and earth are meeting finally, and for a moment, you can even smell the odors of soil and rain in the air.

“Get some rest.” Bellamy’s lips curl around the words gently, smoothly. Murphy can’t help but shift his gaze on them, even if it’s for just fleeting a second.

Then the man shifts his gaze away, “I’ll try to come home early.” he says, stepping around the boy, their shoulders brushing lightly, the contact lasting shorter than a breath, but Murphy still loses his own.

Bellamy walks out of the room, the boy following a moment later. He unlocks the front door, then turns around. He studies Murphy for a long minute and the other stares back, “So,” he says, “I’ll see you later?” his voice doesn't carry the certainty it did before. It doesn’t demand, or announce. It merely asks, giving the boy space to decide.

Murphy shrugs, “Sure.” he says, wearing a smirk, but this time it’s different.  
 

Bellamy nods. He smiles, his eyes looking brighter than the sun outside, and Murphy’s heart jumps in his throat.  
 

The door closes with a soft _clutch_ and he turns away, standing in the quiet hallway, until he’s chased the odd feeling in his chest. Then his stomach suddenly growls, and for the first time in years, Murphy doesn't hate himself for it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> Don't forget to Kudos, leave a comment, tell me what you think so far, what you'd like to see happening next!   
> Until next time, come say hi to my [Tumblr](http://richard-harmon-gifs.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> PS I don't have a beta for this work so notifying me for any mistakes would be very appreciated!


	4. My Disguise Won't Save Me This Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well I can’t just stay here, can I?”
> 
> “Why not?”
> 
> Murphy narrows his eyes, half a smile on his lips and bewilderment all over his face, “You don't mean that.” _He couldn't mean that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello, lovelies! Guess who's risen from the dead and decided to start writing! (hint: it's not me, I wasn't dead I swear.)  
> Man, this chapter was hard to get out guys. Also, first time in history one of my stories manages to live past the third chapter, so yay to me! And yay to you too, of course, for keeping me motivated with your beautiful, amazing comments!
> 
> See ya on the other side!

“You are late,” a familiar voice calls the instant he steps in the police station. “You are never late.” A smaller girl approaches him, her eyes smiling, glinting playfully.

He walks past her, a smirk on his lips, and she follows suit, her blond and brown hair bouncing around her shoulders as she moves smoothly between the desks to catch up with the taller man.

“Why, did you miss me?” he teases, swinging open the door to his office.

“Um, no,” she exclaims, stepping in front of him, “More like worried sick about your annoying ass. I was just about to call you.” Bellamy closes the door behind them and she drops herself in a chair.

“Oh, so now my ass is annoying? Funny, that’s not the vibe I get every time you’re staring at it.” He’s smirking and Gina is gaping and if she’s still breathing, then it’s definitely not thanks to him.

“Wow,” she says, “Did aliens abduct you on the way here? Is that why you’re late?”

“Late?” Bellamy musters a very confused look, “What do you mean late? I swear it was 7 two minutes ago.”

The girl humphs to hide the chuckle tingling her throat, “Smooth, Bellamy.” she says, but in the end her lips crack into a smile, a bright, warm smile that is only contagious. “So, what happened?”

Bellamy shrugs, “Nothing,” and the girl squints at him. “I just overslept.” he goes to sit behind the big desk, knowing he could have definitely at least tried to work a little harder on his lie.

“Right.” Gina scoffs, “‘Cause you look so refreshed.”

“I think you’re just jealous that I got to sleep last night and you didn’t.”

The other gapes at him, “Rude.” she says, grabbing one of the folders sitting on his desk.

Bellamy sort of laughs, lips up-turned, dimples forming under smiling eyes.

Gina notices. “You’re in an awfully good mood today,” she says, “Does it have anything to do with our case?”  
  
“No,” he sighs, “Wish it did.” he leans back into the chair, watching as she flips through the pages, “It must be the awesome sleep I had.”

“Only you would refer to sleep as ‘awesome’.” Gina shakes her head. “Wanna grab something to eat? I brought burgers.”

Bellamy scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry, already had lunch,” he says and watches as Gina struggles to quote the question-marks floating around her head.

“Is your sister back?” she asks a moment later.

“Why would she be?” Bellamy mumbles, his eyes finding hers.

Gina stares. And then she stares some more. Her eyes slowly narrowing until she’s mustered _that_ look that lets Bellamy know something not-good is coming.

“Bellamy Blake,” she leans closer, mischief playing in her eyes, “Are you seeing someone?”

The other looks at her confused, “Someone...like..?”

“Like, _‘someone’,_ ” she hints.

Bellamy almost chokes, “What are you talking about?” he utters, as if he’s just been accused of something unthinkable.

“It’s not my fault you’re not telling me what’s going on.” Gina raises her hands in defense.

The older boy grunts, “There’s nothing going on.” he gestures with his hands to emphasize, “It was just a weird night. Nothing happened.”

“I don’t know,” the girl lifts her shoulders, “Too many ‘just’s and ‘nothing’s usually mean something.”

Bellamy snorts, “God, Gina, you are _so profound._ ” he mocks.

“Someone’s got to be.” she jokes right back and they’re both breathing soft chuckles. “But, really, you’ll tell me if something _is_ going on, right?”

“Promise,” Bellamy nods and thinks this is the first time he’s felt so warm inside, since…

“Alright!” Gina exclaims, giving him one last look before changing the subject, “I got the files on the last...victims.” she says, placing a red folder on his desk, “There were three more.”

“All dead?” Bellamy takes the folder in his hands, not really waiting for an answer, “Any new leads?”

“Not really.” Gina shakes her head, “Still a dead end. Quite literally.” The other just nods. “Bellamy,” she says, and the man looks up at her, “You know they won’t allow you to do this for much longer.” she now looks serious, almost sad. Bellamy doesn’t like it. “The only reason they’re letting you keep this investigation going is because of..”

“I know.” he stops her. “I know, I just- There _is_ a case here. I know there is. Lead or no lead, it’s not possible that all these people just _decided_ to go crazy and die.” He exclaims. “Something is causing this, and we have to figure it out before it gets completely out of hand.” Gina looks at him, at all the exasperation and evident exhaustion bubbled up in his wide eyes. Her heart clenches and she can’t bring herself to tell him that it’s very unlikely, that he’s projecting feelings on the case.

Instead, she just smiles because, _‘no way in hell am I letting you do the stupid thing alone_ ’ - it’s a thing they have, the only reason they managed to get this far.

“You trust your gut,” she says to him, “I’m gonna buy us as much time you need, alright?” she raises from her seat, Bellamy’s eyes following her. “I’m just gonna go through all the latest reports, see if we missed anything. Be right outside if you need me.”

She’s almost out of the door when Bellamy stops her, “Gina,” he calls, and she turns around. “Thank you.”

The girl flashes him a smile, a warm, got-your-back kind of smile before closing the door, and Bellamy thinks he definitely loves her.

He proceeds to look through the new and older files of the victims, trying to make a connection, or find the tiniest of clues of what lead to their death.

There’s already six of them reported and it baffles Bellamy that they can’t even be considered victims, at least not officially. There is never evidence of a third party being involved and consequently they’re all being filed as freak-accidents.

The deceased are always being described as “violent, paranoid, displaying sudden bursts of anger, and perilous behavior,” while the relatives being asked about them always seem to end their statements at the same note:  _“this was nothing like them”_.

And thus, Bellamy’s nightmare begins. Because his head would never just settle for something as vague and as simple as _‘they went crazy’._

Six people don’t just die in freak-accidents in less than two weeks. Soon, it becomes clear that there’s no mutual relatives between the victims. The ages range from teens to elders, and the classes jump from businessmen to thugs to the woman walking to the market.

Bellamy starts to think someone’s picking them with the one and only intention of them having nothing in common. Picking victims, plus death, leads Bellamy to the rough, makeshift conclusion that someone’s experimenting. Hence, his theory that someone’s trying to bring a new drug to the market.

It’s been a long shot all along, but the officers in the station had backed him up, or at least they used to, until the results of the autopsies had come out clean, and Bellamy was left standing alone, working on a case everyone considered closed.

He knows time is running thin and soon he'll have to officially close the case files until further information comes up.

With no leads, or proof of his theory, he’ll be forced to follow-up the case on his own, refrain from any open investigations, return the opened up bodies to their relatives, with no further explanation other than that a mental illness was the cause of their tragic death.

Bellamy's getting a headache, when suddenly, the sound of an email interrupts his thoughts, and he looks up from the papers to his computer. He only reads the starting sentence, then drops back into his chair, rubbing his eyes slowly, a long breath skipping out of his lips to leave his lungs empty and tired.

No poison or drug was found in the first two victims, and he knows it’ll be pointless to hold out for a better result from the third one.

Bellamy’s now officially out of clues and out of hope. So he grabs the papers, tucks them into their folders, and spends a good minute, or two, trying to convince himself there’s nothing more he can do at the moment.

One unsolved mystery makes him skip right to the next.

His eyes dart to the computer and he frowns. He brings his hands above the keyboard, types down a word, and stays to stare at it. A moment later, he types another, his fingers sliding on the keys a bit faster, but he still hesitates before hitting enter. The search takes more than a second to load and Bellamy curses under his breath. _What are the odds of more than a dozen John Murphy’s existing in the world?_

 

* * *

His own self is staring back at him impassively, his lips twisting in disgust, and he leans a little closer to the glass, eyes gleaming. He looks...well, he looks like shit. And that’s just putting it nicely. Red veins cross the white in his eyes, adding to the sickly, dead expression he’s wearing. The dirt stands out on his awfully pale skin, and so does the dry blood under his eyes, the red and purple bruises on his chin. Strands of hair stick with each other and on his forehead. He draws a hand through them and when he brings it back down it feels oily. It smells even worse.

Murphy grunts a disgusted sound and turns on the tap, spends god knows how long trying to wipe the dirt and blood off of his face and then runs his cold wet fingers through his hair, around his neck, trying to massage the ache and pent up tension from his bones.

He collects water in his hands, runs it from his throat to the top of his head and repeats, until his hair becomes a dump, disoriented mess, itchy around the edges and smelling even weirder than before. He raises his head, and stays, crystal droplets trailing to his collar-bones as he takes in his non-improved image. Then his glance travels down to his hands, and he starts to wonder what the hell it is that he thinks he’s doing. He’s not sure who this voice belongs to. Maybe it’s his, or maybe it was created in him by someone else. Murphy has always had trouble separating the two.

The dampness on his cheeks and down his neck starts to cool and Murphy takes a moment to breathe. He inhales slowly, then exhales, feeling his body getting lighter as the air leaves him, his limps relaxing at his sides.

When he looks back up, an amused smirk is spread on his lips, and he’s shaking his head at his little moment. He grabs a towel, dries his face, then takes himself to the living-room.

The jacket is slipping from his shoulders and he shrugs it off, doesn’t even bother to leave it on the couch, but lets it drop to the floor, instead. He walks up to the fireplace, brings his hands near the gap between the glass and the shelf, rubbing them together as if he’ll somehow keep the warmth between his fingers.

Murphy’s glance trails to the shelf, and between the objects, he catches the picture of a young woman; olive green eyes and a radiant smile looking right back at him. It’s only natural that he squints, winces, really, at the now familiar image of the black-haired girl who’s smiling over joyously, standing next to a certain, less joyful, police officer. Her picture has been following him all around the house, or, to put it correctly, has been popping up in every room he invaded and nearly every drawer he searched through.

What started as an investigation to find any hidden weapons, drugs, really anything the officer could use to harm him, or that he could use to defend himself if needed, turned into a bizarre quest of how many pictures he could find of the mysterious smiling girl in each room; two, apparently, in the bedroom that he slept last night, a handful of them in the second room down the hall, one hanging on the fridge and one left in the drawer – He found a photo album and didn’t dare open it.

Something told him he’d be greeted by the same broad smile and sparkling eyes that made him so uneasy, left him fidgeting in his clothes and feeling almost bitter at all the life shining on her face, the energy and life that he didn’t understand, couldn't even feign to gleam on his own.

The picture screams relative, and Murphy guesses sibling; someone who could be walking in through the door at any moment to catch him wandering around the house. He thinks – and not for the first time – about leaving. He’s going to find himself out in the cold sooner or later, so what’s the point of delaying it? The thought runs circles in his head, and he tries to reason with himself that it’s better to grab anything he can and leave now than wait for the inevitable to happen.

He’s almost there, standing in front of the door, knob in his hand and mind made up; he pulls, the door creaking open, not all the way, just enough to feel the air caress his skin. He stays, but the cold isn’t what stops him. It’s the flashing image of bright, smiling browns slowly fading into dull dark, the perplexing and bothersome feeling in his gut, that makes him close the door again, breathing out a course.

He retreats to the living-room, dropping himself down on the couch. It smells like coffee and days’ old shampoo, sweat, the man’s scent caught between the warmth, and Murphy finds it oddly comforting, homely. His eyes flatter closed, and this time he saves himself from the trouble of fighting it. His chest heaves and falls, a long breath carrying out the last shreds of reality.

Consciousness starts to slip, but his mind still turns, still tries to beg with him that’s it’s a bad decision. _How is that news?_ He retorts, but when he tries to laugh there’s a lump in his throat that stops him.

He turns on his side, crosses his arms around his self, as if they’ll be his guard against the memories. But then darkness claims him, and there’s no one, nothing to save him from the flashing images, the faces and voices that spin aggressively behind his eyelids. He’s gone far too deep, and it only makes his return to reality all the more painful.

Murphy feels the light touch on his shoulder, the softness that doesn’t, _shouldn't,_ feel right, and comes awake only so that he can jump away from it.

 

* * *

 

By the time he returns home, Bellamy’s head is buzzing with unanswered questions and dead ends that make him uneasy. He’s standing on the porch, behind the door, fidgeting with the keys between his fingers. A moment later, he slips them in the lock. The house looks completely dark from outside, as empty as ever, and something in him hesitates to twist the knob.

And he might’ve stayed there pondering for hours, but the midnight breeze is hardly compassionate to his indecision. Cool air wraps around him, sends chills all over and down his spine; Bellamy’s swinging the door open, stepping inside.

He lets the door behind him shut closed, the silence that sits in the air engulfing him in a thick cloak, and he trails his hand up the wall to find the switch. There’s a _click,_ light appears down the hall, and Bellamy’s glancing around slowly, waiting for a sound, a voice, someone to come around the corner – a sign that he isn’t alone.

“Murphy?” he calls, but gets no response.

He sets the bags he’s holding on the floor and starts walking down the hall, looking from room to room, his steps gradually getting faster.

“Murphy!” he barks, his voice tight, louder.

“M—” The shout dies in his throat the moment he sees the sleeping figure on the couch.

Murphy’s lying on his side with his head tilted in his chest. His knees are tucked below his stomach, arms wrapped around his torso protectively. There’s a sense of vulnerability, a scent of sadness tingling the air and it almost makes Bellamy feel that he’s intruding. His glance trails away involuntarily, only to land on the jacket lying on the floor.

He frowns, turning away from the sleeping boy and walking over to pick it up. He holds it in his hands for a moment, staring at the blood stains on the hem and sleeves, wondering how the hell he’s only noticing that now. Then he folds it, places it on the sofa – it’s like muscle memory, and he smiles, but it isn’t happy. There’s an earnest feeling tugging at his heart, a longing that’s crowding all the empty spaces between his lungs, bringing a kind of familiar sadness to his eyes.

Bellamy approaches the boy slowly, realizing for the first time that he’s trembling. It’s faint, the shivers masking themselves in between his slow, quiet breaths. Bellamy goes to check on him, frowning in worry. He sits right next to him, at the edge of the couch, and carefully puts a hand to his forehead. It’s cold. And so is his hair.

Bellamy frowns. He places a hand on the boy’s shoulder, shakes him lightly to wake him up. He’s not ready for when the other’s eyes snap wide open and he flinches away from his touch, as if he had just held a knife to his throat. He only catches a glimpse of the fearful look in his eyes before it’s replaced by mild confusion, but it’s enough to let him know that he never wants to have to see it again.

He raises his hands in front of him, gets off the couch in an attempt to show that he means no harm.

“Hey, easy.” he says, “It’s just me.” Murphy doesn’t speak, or even looks at him at all. He’s glancing around the room, seeming disoriented and slightly scared. “Hey, Murphy,” he calls and suddenly the boy’s eyes lock with his, the icy blue cutting the breath in his throat.

“You alright?” he asks and Murphy seems to flinch back into reality.

He shuts his eyes, shaking his head a little as he rubs circles on them. “Yeah,” he says, his voice hushed, raspy, “I’m good.” He swallows, sitting up. There’s no pain in his stomach, no excuse for him to stay around. But he still can’t bring his body to stand up.

“Are you sure about that?” the man looks concerned and Murphy thinks it’ll be the last time.

“ _Yes,_ ” he insists, a faint smirk cracking on his lips, “I’m really fine, okay?”

Bellamy nods, “Good. Come on,” he says and the other sighs softly, starting to stand up, “I brought pizza.”

 

_Wait, what?_

 

“You…” Murphy murmurs, “What?”

Bellamy shrugs a little, crossing his arms to keep from fidgeting. “Pizza,” he repeats, “If… You know. If you’re up to it.”

The boy stares at him for a second, looking puzzled. “Um, yeah.” he says finally, his eyes curious, smiling. “Yeah, pizza sounds good.”

Bellamy nods, “Good.” he mutters softly, trying and failing to suppress the sheepish smile on his lips. A moment later he realises that they’re both staring each other in silence and he clears his throat. “Good. Well, um, get comfortable,” he gestures to nowhere in particular, “I’m gonna get us some plates.” He walks out of the room, feeling the boy’s piercing stare following him until he’s turned around the corner.

 

A few minutes later, Murphy’s crouched on the sofa near the fireplace with a full plate in his hands and a towel on his hair. The man is sitting on the couch across him, the only thing keeping him from grinning being the ever present threat of Murphy throwing a punch at him.

They eat in silence, until Murphy decides to blurt out the first thing that’s currently rolling around his mind.

“Don’t you ever take that uniform off?” he asks, catching the other off guard.

Bellamy raises his eyebrows at the sudden question, but recovers quickly, “I usually just sleep in it,” he shrugs, “Change it every few days.”

Murphy stares at him with a deadpan, remarkably judgmental, expression, “You change _back into_ a uniform.”

The man breathes a small chuckle, “I guess, yeah.” he says, “Why, you don't like it?”

The other raises an eyebrow, “I'm just sayin. You've got a wardrobe full of clothes and—” he gestures with his slice of pizza to the officer.

“Well, feel free to raid my wardrobe at anytime.” Bellamy jokes, completely unprepared to find out that he actually means it and being oddly content when he does.

Murphy snorts, grabbing the towel off of his still dump hair, “Yeah, right.” He takes another bite off the pizza, as a shiver runs from the back of his neck down his spine.

“Are you cold?” the man asks.

“I’m good.” Murphy replies, biting off another piece.

Bellamy gets up and disappears out of the room before he can ask him where’s he's going. He comes back a second later, with a blanket in his hand.

The boy rolls his eyes, “Dude, I told you I’m—”

“ _Murphy,_ ” is all it takes to make him give up and let the man wrap the soft blanket around him.

Bellamy sits back down, grabbing his slice of pizza, looking so smug. And maybe this time, Murphy doesn’t want to punch him in the face, not too much, at least.

“Thanks,” he says, and the other nods.

A few minutes pass, and Murphy can just tell that the other is getting fidgety; glancing around the room aimlessly, swallowing just too frequently. And when Bellamy starts to play with the bacon in his plate, looking up from it only in between seconds, Murphy decides it’s time to put an end to his suffering.

“You gonna get it over with?” he says, knowing that it’s time for him to hear it, too. He almost wants to hear it. He’s afraid he might never leave if he doesn’t.

Bellamy looks up, “What?” he frowns.

“Just say what you have to, man.” Murphy prompts, the thumping of his heart not matching the nonchalance in his voice.

He watches the other’s glance drop to the floor, giving a slight nod, and Murphy tells himself it was good while it lasted – at least it didn’t end in pain – he thinks he’s even ready to get up from the sofa, but then the man opens his mouth, “What happened to your parents?”

Murphy blinks. Gulps lightly. This is definitely not the kind of question he expected to hear.

He sets his plate on the space next to him, wraps the blanket tighter around him without even noticing.

“I, uh…” he swallows thickly, his eyes already turning glassy, gleaming under the soft lights in the room.

“My father died in a car accident.” he says, his voice tight, the words catching in his throat and coming out cracked, uneven. “Mum drunk herself to death.”

There’s a hateful spark in his glance, a glint of danger, and Murphy looks away, suppressing the tickle in his lungs, the sudden urge to scream.

“I’m sorry,” is the only thing that Bellamy says. And once upon a time, it might’ve been enough.

Murphy huffs a dry chuckle, “ _Yeah,_ ” and his voice stings his throat.

“My mother was murdered,” starts suddenly the officer and Murphy glances up at him, “Never got to meet my dad.” Their sadness matches, maybe not perfectly, but it stills locks, like two pieces of puzzle that fit together, even though they were never meant to.

It makes Murphy look away, raise his eyebrows as he works on a lighthearted tone, “Wow,” he finally utters, “You definitely handled it well,”

Better than me. Nothing like me. _We are not the same_.

“Being alone, I mean.”

“I’ve never really been alone.” Bellamy smiles, and it’s sad but it’s also kind, there’s no poison in it.

They are not the same.

“Not until lately,” he lets it hang in the air for a moment, takes a breath before he speaks again, “I have a sister.”

“The girl in the photos?” Murphy asks and Bellamy nods.

“You noticed?”

“Kinda hard not to.”

Bellamy chuckles softly, “That’s Octavia.” he says, “Me and her, we’ve… We’ve been there for each other, always.”

“But now she’s not around?” Murphy isn't sure why he keeps asking these questions, but he’s too tired to fight with himself at the moment, so he does it anyway.

The other shakes his head. “No,” he sighs. “I screwed up. She decided she didn’t want to stick around anymore.”

The silence that sits upon them is heavy, eating away at something good that used to be there.

They're both thankful when Murphy decides to break it.

“Well,” he starts, same nonchalant tone and easy smirk back to his lips, “I bet she’s not having pizza right now, so..” he shrugs, “Really, it’s her loss.”

Bellamy cracks a smile, chuckles softly as he stares into the other’s eyes, and Murphy returns it with a smirk.

“What about you?” asks the man a minute later.

The boy looks up from his hands, “Hm?”

“You’ve been with anyone all this time?”

Murphy looks at him, calculating where’s the question coming from, then he shakes his head, “Not really,” he says, and he can’t decide whether he’s lying or not.

The man’s still looking at him, seemingly unsatisfied. “Living on the streets isn’t exactly a family experience.” he explains.

Bellamy nods, “So, what have you been doing?”

The boy shrugs a shoulder, “Surviving.” he says and the other scoffs.

“Well, that’s awfully vague.”

“You are the police officer,” he counters, “Why don't you figure it out?”

Bellamy hums, smiling playfully. “Careful,” he says, “I might actually take you up on that challenge.”

“And I’ll be gone long before you do.” Murphy replies, his eyes glinting with just a little bit of truth.

 

Later, after Bellamy has forced him to dry his hair (that now looked like a ruffled up mess, _the jerk_ ) and after he has downed the last drops of milk and set his glass aside, Murphy only waits a moment before deciding it’s about time.

“I should get going,” he says and the man raises his eyebrows at him.

“Going where?”

Murphy shrugs, “Dunno.”

“Then, why do you have to go?” Bellamy asks confused.

“Well I can’t just stay here, can I?”

“Why not?”

Murphy narrows his eyes, half a smile on his lips and bewilderment all over his face, “You don't mean that.” _He couldn't mean that._

“I'm just saying. You can’t be eager to go back out there.”

“Or maybe you're just eager to keep me in here.” the boy half jokes, but Bellamy knows better than to take it lightly.

“Come on, Murphy,” he all but pleads, “I thought we were past that.” Yet the other doesn't give him any comforting reply. Bellamy sighs. “All I’m saying is, there's a reason you came here.”

Murphy looks away with a scowl, then back around, “And what would that be?”

“That you needed a place to stay.” Bellamy says, “Survive.”

“Yes, well, staying here was an _accident_.” the boy glares.

“You _don't want_ to go back out there.” Bellamy exclaims frustrated, “I'm trying to tell you that you don't have to.”

“Right,” Murphy’s lips curl up into a sneer, “It’s ‘either here, or the police station’, this time?”

It makes Bellamy flinch back slightly, draw his gaze an inch lower from the boy’s eyes. “No.” he says, and his voice is rough. He exhales, shaking his head once. “It’s your choice if you wanna stay.”

Then Bellamy gets up. Takes their plates and Murphy's glass and leaves the room, disappears into the kitchen. He stalls around the small space, for two, five, ten minutes, until his heart is thumping loudly in his chest. There are noises coming from down the hall and Bellamy breathes, he closes his eyes, waits another half, one, one and a half minutes to storm out of the room and return to the living-room. He turns around the corner. Stops in his tracks.

Murphy's still sitting on the sofa, chewing on pizza crust, greeting Bellamy with a smug smile once he sees the pure bewilderment on the other’s face.

“You're gonna need more pizza,” he says, and Bellamy’s smirking.

“Next time you’re trying pineapple.” he returns and sprawls himself down in the couch.

 

* * *

 

It’s long after midnight and Murphy's lying in the dark of Bellamy's room, after a much appreciated suggestion that he could take a shower, and a – very much less appreciated – offer of Bellamy to lend him his clothes – his big, gigantic, coffee-and-orange-smelling clothes that make him look even shorter and smaller than he already is.

Bellamy had dared to snort as he came out of the bathroom and he had shot him a look so cold that, probably, most likely, had made him choke on it.

Then the man had offered him his bed, saying he’d rather sleep on the couch anyway, and Murphy didn’t really even think to decline the offer.

So maybe in the end, he was right. They probably aren’t the same after all. Might actually be precisely the opposite; One, who becomes a policeman after the murder of his mother, and the other, who burns down the house of his father’s killer.

Murphy isn’t sure why he finds himself bothered by this conclusion, almost like he’s disappointed. It makes no sense to him, and he blames it on the tiredness, on drinking too much milk, or to the coffee-and-orange-smelling shirt he’s wearing, the scent that lingers in the room and feels almost safe.

He closes his eyes, breathing easily, quietly. Relatively at ease and completely ignorant of the man downstairs, sitting on the couch with a laptop on his knees, his eyes narrowing in disbelief, maybe even fear, as the video replays itself on the screen; a house ablaze, flames swallowing it hungrily, and a young face, familiar, watching it burn down, and then leaving, running away, once he hears the police sirens.

“ _Murphy…_ ” he mutters under his breath, and looks up to the ceiling, reaching for his gun.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> Also, Richard hates pineapple pizza so I knew I had to somehow get Murphy to try it cause _*revenge*._
> 
> As always, I don't have a beta, so please, _please_ let me know if there are any mistakes!  
>  **Please don't forget to Kudos and leave a comment!  
>  Till next time! **


	5. Partners In Crime (Solving)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murphy simply nods his head. “Okay,” he says, “That’s it.”  
> He stands up. “Stay here.” 
> 
> “What are you doing?” Bellamy eyes him quizzically.
> 
> “Getting us a lead.” Murphy replies, then turns back. “Actually...I need 25$.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't thank all of you enough for your comments and continuous motivation. This chapter wouldn't have come to be otherwise.

_Previous Chapter_  
  
_Murphy closes his eyes, breathing easily, quietly. Relatively at ease and completely ignorant to the man downstairs, sitting on the couch with a laptop on his knees, his eyes narrowing in disbelief, maybe even fear, as the video replays itself on the screen; a house ablaze, flames swallowing it hungrily, and a young face, familiar, watching it burn down, and then leaving, running away, once he hears the police sirens._

 _“_ Murphy… _” he mutters under his breath, and looks up to the ceiling, reaching for his gun._

 

* * *

  
He’s standing in the middle of the room. His weight shifting from one foot to the other, almost awkwardly, almost like he’s embarrassed. Dark browns trace the floor, sweep from the cinnamon and black of the carpet to empty white walls, up to the pale – okra – white of his ceiling. He brings a hand up and rubs and chases the stinging in his eyes, the gun held loosely in his other one, nearly slipping from his grip.

  
He glances around the room, his eyes trying to escape the inevitable sight of the sleeping figure in his bed.   
  
And when it finally lands, there’s only a boy there. The same one that was three, maybe ten minutes ago, when Bellamy had stormed inside the room, all nerves and silly fury, and then had abruptly stopped and frozen in place; finding just a kid, of all things, lying still and completely unaware, breathing quietly in the blankets, looking harmless, near vulnerable, with his wrists tucked under his chest and the air whizzing softly through his nose.  
  
Bellamy allows himself to take a step back, still desperately trying to find any sing of the criminal, the threat, he’d come for, but seeing none. Just a boy, a kid, really, that just a few hours ago he’d shared food and a piece of his heart with. Something in him demands more distance between himself and the bed and he can’t bother to stop himself from moving backwards. His feet tangle and he bumps in the chair. It barely moves.  
  
The boy sniffs and shifts deeper into the covers, a tiny moan rocking in the back of his throat. Bellamy's eyes are wide. The breath caught in his lungs and choking him. The gun in his hand now feeling heavy, almost like it hurts his muscles to carry it.  
  
“ _Always the one to assume,”_ his sister taunts for the hundredth time, and now it’s ringing in his head and his heart swells and sinks.   
  
The breath he lets go of burns his throat on the way up.  
  
Bellamy shakes his head, he pulls himself back together, walks out of the room in a few long strides, his eyes wide and red and glued right ahead of him.  
  
He drops the gun on the coffee table, drops himself in the couch. The blanket around him smells of traffic and sweat and cigarette smoke and Bellamy chokes. His eyes still sting and his gut swells with a feeling of sickness. He never bothers to get up and get a clean one.

* * *

 

Morning arrives too soon, and Bellamy groans disdainfully, bringing up both his hands to shield his eyes from the blinding gray – white light coming from behind the thin curtains. He gives himself time to breathe. Exhale. Inhale.  
  
The morning chill running down his lungs and prompting him to awake. He gets off of the couch and strides to the kitchen, making coffee, hot and bitter to the tongue, then focuses on the task of making breakfast.  
  
It’s half an hour later that Bellamy actually musters up the courage to go and wake the boy.  
  
He crouches in front of him, staying there for a long moment before he finally places a careful hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Murphy?” He whispers lightly, trying not to startle the teen, but gets no response.  
  
“..Murphy,” he repeats, shaking his shoulder once, then instantly regrets it.  
  
Wild blues meet his eyes and the boy jerks up and pulls away from his touch as if it’s pure natural instinct.

Bellamy retracts his hand, the smile on his lips not matching the worry in his eyes. He searches for something to say, anything to make it better or learn why it is so bad, but Murphy has already recovered and calmed down upon seeing it’s only him. He prompts himself on his elbows, the fear in his eyes giving way to confusion and maybe some mild annoyance.

“Morning,” Bellamy greets, his voice deep and warm and almost delicate. The boy shuts his eyes, a low groan in the back of his throat as he falls back into the pillow.

“Already?” He complains, hiding his face in his hands even if there’s not much light in the room.

“Yes,” Bellamy smiles, “And it’s a busy one.” He says, standing up.

Murphy shoots him a questioning look. He opens his mouth to ask, but the man beats him to it.

“Com’on downstairs,” he says, “I’ve made us breakfast.” and he’s out of the door before the other can stop him.

Murphy sits up, shaking his head. It’s probably too early in the morning and whatever the man has in store, he’s sure it’s most likely bad news. The thought that he shouldn't have to deal with any of it occurs to him for only a moment, before he pushes it away and walks out of the room, bracing himself for whatever might be waiting for him downstairs.

He’s heading to the kitchen when the smells of strawberry and melted chocolate reach his nose and Murphy's stomach grumbles in anticipation. He rounds the corner in one single stride, then stops when he sees the man waiting across the small table, a plate of waffles sitting in the middle. There’s empty plates on both sides, but Murphy doesn’t dare move closer until Bellamy gestures for him to sit down.

A low moan tickles at the back of his throat on the first bite of warm chocolate and soft crust, and Murphy coughs timidly around it.

A coy little smile, something almost sweet, is all the response he gets. He clears his throat, “So,” he starts, “What kind of _business?_ ”

Bellamy gives him a look like he’d rather just have breakfast than talk about it now. He’s that close to saying so, but the look in Murphy's eyes makes him decide against it.

He lays back into the chair, “I’ve got to run for some errands,” he says, “Thought we could take a walk, have that pineapple pizza we talked about,” he tries to joke, but it doesn’t come out right.

Bellamy sighs, “There’s a case. I could use a new perspective.”

Murphy eyes him all the more suspiciously, “What does that have to do with me?” 

  
“I just thought you could help.” says the man.

  
“.. _Why_?” 

  
Bellamy looks at him seriously, “You don’t want to be a charity case.” He says matter-of-factly. “I’m offering you to work with me.”

Murphy gives him a calculating glance, “Work with you on a police case.” he says.  
  
Bellamy nods, feeling his whole existence being sized up in a pair of ash and blue eyes. The moment drags on with neither of them speaking. Bellamy's fiddling with his hands under the table, feeling suddenly too big for his own skin. He tries to clear the lump in his throat, his eyes drifting to the boy’s stoic, unreadable expression.  
  
Murphy suddenly gives a shrug, “Fine.” He says and takes a bite of his waffle as if he didn’t just give Bellamy a near melt-down on purpose. “What kind of case?”

Bellamy humphs around a smile, “Freak accidents,” he says.

Murphy stops, “Freak accidents aren’t usually cases,” he almost accuses.

“These are.” The man states seriously, the tone in his voice not giving Murphy much room to question it.

“If you say so,” the other says simply, before returning to his waffle.

* * *

  
Next time they speak, Bellamy is holding the front door open and Murphy’s just standing there, eyeing him up and down with a scowl.

  
The man tilts his head, “You coming?”

“No.” Answers Murphy, and Bellamy's looking at him all confused.

“Not with these clothes.” He gestures toward him.

“What’s wrong with it?” he asks, as clueless as ever.

“It’s the LAPD uniform.” Murphy states with just a tinge of irritation.

Bellamy looks down at himself, “..So?”

“You said _errands_.” The boy glares, “And you look like you’re about to bust someone.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not going in the city with someone dressed as a cop.”

  
“I _am_ a cop,” Bellamy retorts.

  
“Well you don’t have to shout it.” Murphy says dryly.  
  
Bellamy scoffs, “What, you’re afraid it’ll hurt your reputation?" He tries to tease, but regrets it instantly.

The boy’s expression turns into one that’s not a scowl, nor a glare, rather a vacant stare. Something akin to empty, cold hate. It makes Bellamy's blood freeze in his veins. He feels his heart in a grip and beating sickly in his throat.

“Fine,” he mumbles, closing the door. “Just...Stay here.”

Bellamy leaves and disappears upstairs. His ears strain for it. But he never catches a reply.

* * *

  
He’s skidding down the stairs approximately two minutes later, having killed his foot in various objects while trying to rush, and now wearing black jeans, a simple gray-okra shirt and a black denim jacket over his shoulder.

He almost breathes in relief when he sees Murphy leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, a side-glance being the only acknowledgment he gets.

  
“So?” Bellamy asks, “How do I look?”

  
The boy pushes off the wall, takes a few steps closer, eyeing Bellamy's new attire, looking bored if not irritated. He sighs,

  
“Still a cop,” he utters, “Or maybe just retired.” There’s a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

  
“Retired cop?” The other smirks, opening the door.

  
“More like from life in general,” Murphy steps out first.

Bellamy follows, “Well, one of these things are true.” He says. Murphy snorts softly. It sounds awfully like a chuckle.

“Wanna take the bus?” The man suggests, standing in front of the old, black sedan that couldn’t be more obvious if it tried.

Murphy shakes his head, “No, it’s fine.” He says and gets in the co-driver’s seat.  
  
The man beside him is wearing a small smile, and he doesn’t understand how that could make him feel proud.

* * *

  
The drive to the city is mostly quiet, apart from Bellamy giving Murphy some insight and details about the case, and Murphy agreeing that the police department is, quote, “just some lazy assholes who like to play with guns...No offense.”

To which Bellamy replies, amused, “None taken.” And then, “Guns are cool though.”

The boy smirks and shakes his head, “Knives are better.”

  
“How did they let you work on this thing anyway?” Murphy asks as they’re coming to a stop.

“Perks of the rank, I guess,” Bellamy says, “Can't really tell me what to do.” He almost grins, then bites his lip, "Cases can still turn cold, though. It's a big city. People aren't gonna bother if there's no evidence of there being a case in the first place."

Murphy nods in understanding, then goes silent for a moment. “You never said anything about any rank,” His voice seems to have dropped an octave.

Bellamy parks the car and kills the engine. He looks over to the boy. “Does it make a difference?” He asks, his voice careful.

Murphy sighs, shakes his head, “Guess not.” He admits, to himself more than anything.

  
Bellamy awards him with a soft smile.   
  
  
“We’re gonna check on pharmacies, then talk to a couple ‘professionals’ that we keep an eye on.” He says. Murphy tilts his head at him. “Basically chemists and biologists known for their inclination to the herbs and drugs department.” Bellamy explains.

Murphy nods, “How’s that gonna help you?”

“These guys know more than our guys,” Bellamy says, “They know any substance that could be used as a drug and be almost impossible to find in the victim later.”

The boy suddenly skids to a stop. “Wait,” he says, “What’s the point?”

Bellamy stops to look at him.

“You’re gonna end up with a list of untraceable drugs that some guy might be passing around to a bunch of random, most likely willing, people.” Murphy explains. “You still got nothing.”

The other sighs, “ _Almost_ untraceable.” he corrects, “Many of them, you just have to know where to look for. And even if the deceased show no signs of struggle, that doesn’t mean they know they’ll end up dead before they take it.”

He looks at Murphy with a desperate expression. “At least it’s a start.” he says, all but pleading the other to humor him.

Murphy shakes his head. “Fine,” he says, obviously not too happy about it, but going along with it nonetheless. “Lead the way.” He gestures, and Bellamy obeys happily as his chest relaxes, something warm and unfamiliar settling there.

* * *

  
Bellamy might never admit it aloud, but he’s so very thankful for Murphy insisting that he changes his clothes this morning.

Half of the people they visit will lawyer up the instant they realize they are getting interrogated about a murder investigation. Others fancy being so unhelpful, Bellamy just wishes they’d lawyer up so he can at least talk to someone with a brain. Not only that, but the teen beside him has been getting all the more frustrated by the second, sporting a painfully annoyed glare that made even Bellamy feel uncomfortable.

The man is taken aback the first time Murphy opens his mouth at the very uncooperative, very irritating pharmacist, and goes, not missing a beat, “People usually shit from the other end. But you probably know that. Since you’re a professional. These papers _are_ legit, _right?_ ” To which the woman gasps and Bellamy has to try really hard not to burst out laughing.

“Ever faced charges for obstruction?” The boy continues. “It’s not pretty. A lawyer won’t even help your case if it turns out you know more than you’re saying. If we push enough, you might even become an accomplish.”

Bellamy barely suppresses a smile, “Maybe we _should_ continue this at the police station.” He casts the woman a hard, warning look.

Then Murphy turns to him, his face an expression of pure surprise, as if he never expected the police-man to back him up. So Bellamy makes it his priority.

  
It becomes their unspoken game, a tactic where the boy would give every disdainful, uncooperative, slow-thinking person a piece of his mind and Bellamy would be there to stand by him and verify his threats.

It’s only later that the situation gets dangerously carried away, and Bellamy has to stop Murphy by placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Something that’s immediately followed by him shrugging said hand off and walking away without even glancing back.

Not that Bellamy blames him. The guy has been more keen on commenting on a ‘dirty thug’s presence’ there than he’s ever been interested in answering their questions. Still, something tells Bellamy that name-calling was hardly the source of Murphy's fury.

So he follows the boy outside, not giving the gray haired man a second glance; suggesting lunch once he finds Murphy leaning against a break wall, his arms crossed, fingernails turning white. The boy drags a sigh through his nose, looking away, then downwards, forcing on a mirthless, almost-smirk.

“You buyin’.” He says, but it lacks its usual tease.

* * *

  
That's how they end up sitting in the pizzeria; Murphy cocking an eyebrow at his pineapple pizza and Bellamy's glance sweeping constantly from his plate to his hands to his phone, as he waits for the new results.

“Staring at it won’t make them suddenly appear,” Murphy says, his voice gruff.

“Nor will it make your pineapple disappear.” Bellamy replies, “Eat up.”

Murphy sighs, obviously not too eager, but complying anyway and taking a bite off his pizza.

  
“Mmhm. Disgusting.” He says while still chewing.

  
“Liar,” Bellamy smirks at him. “You love it.”

  
Murphy gulps down the food, “It’s not _completely_  terrible,” he says, then takes another bite.

Bellamy snorts. A moment later his eyes turn more serious, a soft curiosity in them. “So what was that back there?” he asks.

It takes Murphy a beat to answer, “What can I say?” He shrugs, “The guy was an asshole.”

Bellamy nods. “No argument there,” he smiles.

He tries again a moment later, “Did you two know each other?”

Murphy looks away, looking skeptical, before shaking his head, “No.” He says, “Not really.” His blues suddenly looking tired, wary. Pleading the man to drop it. He tries to change the subject, and Bellamy graciously lets him.

“What happens when you get the results?” he asks.

Bellamy shrugs a shoulder, “We start looking for who’s buying the components. If nothing better comes until then, it could lead us to whoever is making the drugs.”

Murphy scrunches up his nose. “That’s gonna take you a lifetime.” He states with little sympathy.

Bellamy cocks an eyebrow, “Do you have any better ideas?”

Murphy is just about to say that, _yes,_ he does indeed have much better ideas that don’t involve them walking for hours around the city, when Bellamy's phone vibrates with a message.

  
The older man grabs his phone with a smug grin, but it’s short-lived, fading to a frown the moment he lights the screen. Bellamy sighs and falls back into the chair, running a hand through his hair.

  
“What?” Murphy asks, even though he really doesn’t need to.

  
The man takes a breath before answering. “We got nothing.” He says with as honor as a defeat like that can carry, “Either there was nothing to begin with or we’re just too late. They can’t know for sure.” He doesn’t dare look up from his hands.

Murphy simply nods his head. “Okay,” he says, “That’s it.”

He stands up. “Stay here.” He tells the man.

  
“What are you doing?” Bellamy eyes him quizzically.

  
“Getting us a lead.” Murphy replies, then turns back. “Actually...I need 25$.” He says as if it’s the most natural thing.

  
Bellamy squints, tilting his head, “What do you need 25$ for?” He asks, but the look Murphy gives him has his heart pinned to his throat. “...Fine.” He gives in and hands him the money.

“Thanks,” Murphy says, not sounding grateful in the least. “Stay here.”

He walks out of the pizzeria and strides down the street, his eyes glowing with a rush of certainty that fills his lungs and bones; his heart beating in confidence as he stares, up and ahead, no clue of doubt to find in his features. He stops at a shop and gets some cigarettes, then continues down further.

A few blocks later, trained ears catch the sound of overlapping chatter and young voices, now sounding drunk and thick and like the world owes them their childhood. He hears music playing loudly, as if its noise will be the only mark they’ll ever leave behind, and as he rounds the corner, the smoke fills his lungs, heavy and poisonous and familiar.

Murphy walks up to the group of young people, never before more confident than when he smiles and locks eyes with them, connects fists and bump shoulders and shares short nods of acknowledgment that carry something almost intimate. He hands out the pack of cigarettes and they’re passed around the group, everyone smirks at him or pats him on the back, and Murphy hands twenty to a tall, lanky guy, who’s drinking booze out of a broken bottle.

The guy casts him a glance, his eyes red and tired and twinkling. He smiles sheepishly. Nods for Murphy to follow him, and follow him he does. They stand in a corner,

  
“You shaved your head,” says Murphy, just a tone of respect in his voice.

  
“You don’t stink.” replies the teen with a certain amount of playfulness.

  
“Yeah..” Murphy tilts his head, “About that..”

* * *

  
Murphy asks his questions. The dark eyed teen is more than willing to answer. In the end, they share a nod. Murphy turns and leaves.

  
“Don’t forget about us.” He hears the kid call behind him.  
  
Murphy waves, but never catches the mixture of happiness and misery and envy in the boy’s dark, exhausted eyes.

  
  
He has turned around the corner, and is almost out of the wide alley when he hears a new voice behind him, “ _H_ _ey, look, it’s that faggot again!_ ”

  
Murphy stops dead in his tracks.

  
“ _Isn’t_ _he_ _the guy who sucked you off for like,_ _five_ _?_ ”

  
He grits his teeth, eyes filled with flares and cold, cold rage. He takes a step to leave, but a hand on his shoulder grips him and shoves him around. Murphy has only a second to take note of the three men who look a little over his age, before one of them gets into his face.

“Ya remember me bitch?” The guy stinks of alcohol and Murphy almost gags as he gets closer.

He looks up, eyes sharp and smirk tight. “Sure.” He says. “Kinda hard to forget how you’ve been  _moaning_.” He feels a wave of confidence as the guy’s sickening smile immediately dies on his lips. “You lasted, what, one minute? And then cried about it.” His tone a perfect mixture of mockery, condescension and hate.

The guy seems to be stuck in place, his eyes wide and wild with fury. Murphy almost takes a step to leave with a winning smile.

He doesn’t see when the fist hits him. He only feels the aftermath. Hot, blinding pain spreading from his jaw and ringing in his ears.  
  
He stumbles, then finds his balance a moment later. A moment too late. Last thing he feels is the next punch, then the next one, before his head slams against the break wall and his nose catches the scent of something metallic. He reaches up with one hand, feels the wetness running from his forehead to his lips. Then everything begins to fade to dark. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! As always, this isn't beta-ed so PLEASE point out any mistakes you may find. I don't get mad. I swear. If you point out a mistake, I'll probably love you forever.  
>   
>  **Please don't forget to Kudos and leave a comment!**
> 
> **Till next time!**


	6. What You Say (Don't)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Bullshit.” He says. “You don’t give a fuck.”
> 
> “…you’re wrong.” The other replies quietly.
> 
> Murphy looks at him.
> 
> “Pull over.” He all but demands.
> 
> “No.” the other says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys, and Happy New Year!
> 
> This chapter was originally planned to be much shorter, but I couldn't leave Murphy hurt and homeless (and you hating me) at New Year's Eve so here, have a 5000 and a hundred words chapter!
> 
> I tried to be smart and symbolical for some reason. Carnation and fungus are both flowers that mean isolation, sadness, etc. It'll make sense.
> 
> If you came here hoping for fluff, then I'm so sorry. My heart has promised to never let these two rest.

Bellamy sits, staring anxiously at nothing and at the same time taking in every little unimportant detail about the restaurant. The little smudge of paint on the wall, that slightly misplaced chair, this table with two pepper shakers on it but no salt, his heart thumping in his chest, legs tapping on the floor nervously. His glance shifts from the wall to the plates on the table and then sideways, as if his mind itself is trying to escape.

He checks the time.

It’s been a while. It’s been more than enough. Murphy should’ve been back by now. But, obviously, he isn’t, or Bellamy wouldn’t be feeling the need to pull at his hair until the tension leaves him and he can breathe again.

He wants to believe the kid will come back. He, really, whole-heartedly, wants to trust Murphy and that he’ll return, but part of him also can’t help but think that the boy has bailed on him after today’s disaster.

He thinks about it, and the more he does, the more he realizes that he hasn’t really given the kid any chances to leave before. Not really. Sure he’d left him alone once, but then Murphy had been sick. Deep down Bellamy knew he’d find him right where he’d left him.

And that same night, when Bellamy had offered a way out for him, who was to assure Murphy that trying to leave wouldn’t result in something way worse happening to him? What if the only reason Murphy has stayed this long is because of fear? Fear of what Bellamy might do to him if he doesn’t?

The mere thought makes him feel sick.

He looks at the entrance door as the minutes roll down, and there's a certain stillness in the air, as if he’s holding his breath, as if his breath is stuck in time, and time won’t move.

Suddenly he exhales, and it’s dry of feeling and dry of breath, just a reflex to not choke. He stands up, throwing the money on the table and leaving, flaming browns boring into the space ahead.

He has no idea how to actually find Murphy, or what he’s going to say when he does, but Bellamy still treads down the road he thinks he saw him taking off about half an hour ago.

Near a corner, he stops, skeptical about where to head next. He’s about to take a turn when he hears a voice behind him,

“You looking for someone?”

Bellamy turns around to see a man slightly taller than him, and definitely one or two decades older, with rich, dark brown hair and a beard that’s graying around the edges.

“Uh…yeah,” he answers, both wary and curious towards the man dressed in mostly black.

Bellamy briefly describes Murphy and watches as the other’s eyes light up with acknowledgement.

“Ah..” the man looks down the street and back at Bellamy as he recalls the young, angry-looking boy. “I saw him walking all the way to the next block. He must’ve been heading down to the Fungus.”

Bellamy blinks in puzzlement, “Sorry, what?” he tilts his head, having no idea what the man is talking about.

“Oh,” the man chuckles softly, his eyes smiling kindly, “Sorry, my bad. Carnate Street, is what I meant. We call it Fungus here. Around the 46th. You’ll probably find him there.”

“Why there?”

The man, Marcus, his nametag reads, gives him a sympathetic look, like one would give to someone that’s lost something precious. It makes Bellamy uncomfortable. “People like him usually head there.” He says.

“…right.” Bellamy tilts his head, still unsure whether he should follow the man’s directions.

“He’s a friend of yours?” Marcus asks innocently, rubbing the dirt off of his gardening gloves. Bellamy realizes for the first time he’s standing outside a flower-shop.

“Of sorts,” he says, even though it doesn’t feel exactly right.

“You might want to hurry then.” The man smiles and Bellamy almost starts to worry.

He feels his legs already moving, “Thanks,” he says, and doesn’t wait for the nod the man sends him.

 

* * *

 

Murphy’s head swirls and the ringing becomes louder in his ears as he hits the break wall with a pang. The earth shifts beneath his feet and he stumbles and falls to his knees, eyes clenching then opening wide, willing his vision to settle despite the overwhelming dizziness.

In a moment he can see again, no matter how blurry, and his eyes lock on the group of three people, the cold blue flaming, screaming murder.

He lashes out from his spot and leaps into one of them, taking him down and straddling him, one fist following the other in a feverish attempt, breaking the skin they touch. He draws blood, a dirty, mad grin stretching on his face, but it’s short-lived.

Two couples of hands grab on each side of him and snatch him back, throw him back against the wall. Murphy rolls down, his muscles complaining, but he doesn’t stay for a second. He leaps back up, charges towards another man in blind furry. They catch his arm easily, land a punch on his stomach and twist his arm until Murphy cries out in pain, sure something has broken.

With his free hand he elbows the man holding him and turns around, kicking and punching and clawing before the third one gets a hold of him and pulls him away. He encircles his arms under Murphy's armpits then secures them at the back of his neck.

Confined in a nelson hold and with every muscle stretching uncomfortably and aching, Murphy still struggles, like a wild animal desperate to escape. He manages to stomp on the man’s feet and kick him hard enough that he’s forced to let him go.

He’s ready to attack, the end goal to tear the other’s eyes out of their sockets, when a bottle hits him on the back of the head and he stumbles, his knees sinking, breaking on the ground.

Sharp pain spreads in waves behind his eyes, he gasps and then he chokes, blinking back tears, his teeth clenched and his fists turning white.

He stands up slowly, body moving and unfolding like a puppet prompted by strings. Hair bloody and wet fall across his eyes, his lips slightly apart, a sneer laced with poison forming.

The first man he hit advances towards him and, somehow, Murphy manages to push him off. Even more impossible in his state, he manages to land a few blows before the three of them circle up on him and snatch him by his jacket.

Murphy doesn’t hesitate to waste what he supposes are the last of his breaths to cause as much damage as possible. He kicks and thrashes and claws his way through the others’ fists, reveling in the sounds of pain he draws, in the knowledge that he’ll be destroyed but not before he has destroyed them first.

Somewhere in the distance, he thinks he hears a voice. But his head is already ringing and it’s too far anyway, so he ignores it was ever there.

Then there’s the sound of a gun going off. And everything stills.

* * *

 

Bellamy has frozen in his tracks, staring at the scene in front of him with wide scared eyes. And the more he stares, the less he understands what’s happening.

He sees Murphy on the ground, blood running down his face, smeared around his lips, all over his clothes. He sees him getting beaten. He sees him beating back, all teeth and hate and trembling muscles, fighting like his life depends on it.

He takes a step closer. He thinks he’s calling out his name. Or maybe whispering it. No one seems to bat an eye either way. Murphy's head hits the ground with a blow. Bellamy holds his breath. Then he screams.

“Hey! Stop!” his voice guttural, scratching his throat. But, again, no one seems to even notice he’s there. So he does the next thing he can think of.

He raises his gun towards the sky. And he shoots.

“ _HANDS IN THE AIR!_ ” he yells deep in his throat, and everything stills, the chaos ceases.

Murphy looks up from under his hanging hair, looking dishevelled and lost and questioning the sudden lack of arms violating him. He glances up, a familiar face swimming in his vision.

“Be..llamy?” he thinks he might be hallucinating. He probably is.

His eyes are all red and disoriented, but Bellamy is more concerned when the other coughs up blood, when he bows his head and he sees the dark red wetting his hair. It makes his legs weak, nervousness and fear for the boy causing his whole body to shake.

“Separate. Now!” he growls. “The three of you- Hands against the wall!”

The three men seem to step away further, though not completely obliging.

“He’s a prostitute, sir!” One says.

“Yeah, he wouldn’t let up.” The other adds.

Bellamy narrows his eyes, and before he can realize what’s happening, Murphy is on his feet and launching towards the three men, all kinds of bloody, heated courses on his tongue. Bellamy stops him before he gets the chance to do anything.

“I said _hands up_!” He advances the gun towards him this time, all the tension and fear of what might happen to the boy if this continues riling him up to the point he can feel tremors and anxiety jolts all over from his feet up to his stomach.

“Bellamy.” The other mumbles as he stops, so abruptly pulled from his rage that it takes him more than a moment to take in the scene before him.

“Stand down. Now.” He all but demands, knowing Murphy will probably hate him for it later. Also knowing that if this ends up in the police station, then there will be nothing he can do to save the boy.

Murphy stops completely. He turns towards Bellamy, for the first time realizing the man has his gun pointed at him.

“Bellamy, I didn’t do anything,” he sounds desperate, betrayed. “These fuckers-”

“I said _cease,_ Murphy.” He growls low in his throat.

He watches the boy flinch as if he’d been struck, then suddenly settle, something cold and guarded taking place in his blue-red eyes.

“Put your hands over your head.” He says.

Murphy obeys, refusing to even look at him. He winces at the pain as he lifts his sore arms, but doesn’t dare drop them.

“Are you gonna shoot me?” His voice is laced with betrayal as he looks in the man’s general direction, never really looking at him.

Bellamy swallows. He sends the other three off. “…before I take you in for harassment,” he says and it’s enough to send them running.

Once he makes sure they’re gone, his attention turns to the boy still looking – _but not-really-looking_ – at him like he could tear his skin apart, if only he got the chance.

“What do you think you're doing?” He asks after a moment, for lack of any other coherent thoughts that he can gather.

Murphy glares impassively, looking Bellamy over with such disgust and anger, that it sends a shiver down the man’s spine.

“A mistake, obviously.” He croaks out, tasting the blood on his tongue.

Bellamy feels the sting in his chest, almost winces at it. He half lowers his gun, looking away then back at the boy. He looks like he's about to say something but eventually figures that it won't make a difference anyway. He shakes his head, turns away and takes a few steps to leave. He only looks back over his shoulder when he realizes Murphy isn’t moving.

“Murphy, come on.” He sounds almost tired, the demand and anger in his voice mixing with the still present tension.

“No.” replies the boy coldly.

“Murphy-”

“I'm not your fucking dog Bellamy.” He seethes, his hands clenched in fists at his sides to keep them from trembling.

The man turns around, all but storms up to him with fire in his eyes, and it takes everything in Murphy to not stumble and fall on his back. He's taking two shaky steps on instinct, and the man is suddenly in his face, towering over him, dark browns flaring, voice low and threatening.

“Come to the car.” He says.

For the first time Murphy looks at him, eyes red and glowing, “Or what?” he mutters through a tight grin.

Bellamy swallows thickly, avoiding the kid’s intence glare, until the next moment.

“Come on.” He says gruffly and takes Murphy by the arm, as gently as his anger allows, tugging the boy along and forcing him to follow.

Murphy only struggles once they’re around the corner, snapping his arm out of the man’s hold and walking ahead, not sparing the man a glance. Bellamy lets him, retracting his gun and walking right behind the boy.

When they reach the car, Bellamy opens the door for him.

“Get in.” he says and again, Murphy obeys. He slides in his seat, eyes pinned somewhere in the distance, his chest heaving despite his efforts to try and stay calm, or look the part, at least.

They drive in silence for what seems like the longest minutes of their lives. At some point, Bellamy decides he can’t take it anymore.

“What the hell where you thinking?” he utters, his voice ringing all too clear in the quiet.

However, the boy doesn’t answer, nor shows any signs that he’s heard him.

“Murphy.” Bellamy says. The other brings his arms tighter around himself.

“I didn’t do anything.” He mutters bitterly.

Bellamy glances sideways, and all he sees is bruised skin and tousled clothes, the kid’s hands shaking, looking small and cowering in his seat. He feels a pang of guilt in his gut, but he can’t find it in himself to explain to the kid why he did what he did. If Murphy knew what he knows, wouldn’t that make him only more terrified?

Bellamy sighs quietly. “What happened?” he asks.

“It’s none of your business.” Murphy snaps.

“It is since you lied to me.” The other retorts, missing to see the kid cringe at the sudden assumption. “I thought we were working together.”

Murphy scoffs coldly, “You’d really like that, wouldn’t you?” he feels the anger and fear boil inside of him.

“What the hell is going on with you Murphy?” the other growls, not far from getting riled up himself.

He couldn’t figure the kid out, could never predict when something he’d say would end up twisted and thrown back at him. It frustrated him to no end.

Suddenly, the kid unfolds in his seat, turns to glare at the man, his body radiating heat and anger, in his eyes glowing a thousand daggers.

“What’s going on with me?” he says, “What the **_fuck_** is wrong with **_you_** Bellamy?!” Murphy explodes. “If I'm such a trouble to you, why the _FUCK_ won't you just let me _go_?!”

Bellamy stares at the sudden burst with wide eyes. Before he can say anything-

“Open the fucking door!” screams the boy and turns around, kicking the side of the car as if his anger alone could make it budge.

He’s violating the handle with all his strength, literally trying to get out while the car’s still running. Bellamy’s heart is beating loud, now glad that he had the safety locked since the moment they got in.

“Murphy!” he yells, trying to bring the kid back down from his peak anxiety point.

  
“You care **_so much_** don’t you?!” the other seethes, turning back to the man.

  
The other is silent. Murphy chokes.

“Then why the _**fuck**_ didn’t you _do_ anything?!” He demands “You just let them go!” Bellamy’s looking at the road. He doesn’t see the building tears in the kid’s eyes. And Murphy will never admit they’re not just product of frustration.

The other gulps, “They’d take it to the police. They’d get you involved.” He says, forcing his voice to come out, as domineering as ever.

But Murphy only seems to get angrier, “ ** _YOU_** _are the police!_ ” He shouts until he feels the sting in his throat.

“I wouldn't be able to protect you!” Bellamy yells before he can stop himself.

The other pauses. His anger briefly giving way to a whole new wave of wariness and fear.

“Protect me from what?” he asks, voice low, almost trembling.

Bellamy thinks he can hear his heart pumping in his ears.

“I don’t know, Murphy.” He says, “Why don’t you tell me? You're the one who didn’t want to go to the hospital.”

The boy gulps. “Bullshit.” He sneers. “You don’t give a fuck.”

“…you’re wrong.” The other replies quietly.

Murphy looks at him. And everything he's feeling suddenly mixes and blends together and sits and crowds in his lungs. He thinks he can’t breathe.   
  
“Pull over.” He all but demands, his tone grave and tensed and breaking.

 

Bellamy falters.  
  
  
“No.” He utters then, voice like a tombstone.

  
“Stop the car, I’ll fucking kill you!”

  
The other glances at him once.

“No.” He repeats.

“Open the fucking door, Bellamy!”

“No.”

“ ** _LET ME GO!_** ”

“…no.”

.

.

.

“I hate you.”

  
And Bellamy can live with that. He will if he has to.

* * *

 

A few minutes pass in heavy silence. The boy has shrunk back in his seat, his arms hugging around his chest as if to create a barrier, some sense of safety. He looks tired. And he looks scared.

It takes everything in Bellamy to not stop the car right then. It’s only a small part of his brain that actually pulls him back. Talking now won't make anything better, it reasons. Letting him go in this state isn’t even an option. So Bellamy drives.

It’s only a little later that Murphy realizes they aren’t heading home– Bellamy’s house. _Bellamy’s house,_ he corrects. Not home. Never home.

“Where are you taking me?” His voice betrays the uneasiness and building panic, nearly bare of its previous spark.

Bellamy takes a moment to answer him. “The hospital,” he admits faintly.

“Don’t be scared.” He says, looking over at the kid who has gone rigid in his seat. “She’s a friend. She won't ask any questions.”

Murphy wills himself to breathe. He gulps down his fear. Bellamy hears a chuckle so empty his blood freezes. “Funny you failed to mention her the other day.” He says without even glancing at him.

Bellamy starts to think if, in the end, he really is the monster the kid sees in him. 

 

* * *

 

When they arrive at the hospital, Bellamy asks for some Dr. Griffin. They direct them to a corridor. Everyone’s staring at him. But he couldn’t care less if he tried. He's walking with his head up, hands in his pockets, like the world could catch on fire and he wouldn’t bat an eye.

The man knocks on a door, and surely enough, it opens wide a moment later. A blonde appears behind it, her eyes radiating light.

“Bellamy,” she greets with a smile. Then her eyes land on Murphy. “Who’s your friend?” she asks, nothing but kindness and pure curiosity in her voice.

It makes Murphy take his bored stare off the wall and actually look at her, giving her a not so subtle once-over, which is only fair, since she seems to be doing exactly the same. Murphy can't decide if he likes her or not.

“This is Murphy.” Bellamy introduces, “Murphy, this is Clarke.” He tries to catch a brief glance of the boy’s eyes, but Murphy won't let him have it.

“Should I ask what happened?” she turns to Bellamy, understanding the boy isn’t in the mood for any greetings.

“Please don’t.” replies Bellamy seriously, his eyes soft and pleading.

“Right,” smiles Clarke, but it’s a little sadder. “Okay. Let's stitch you up.” She turns to Murphy, holding the door open for him to step in the room.

He starts to move towards her, and he can feel Bellamy's eyes on his back. Clarke smiles at him. And he can't help but want to turn around, to look at Bellamy, to be assured that going in there is okay, that following this person he doesn’t know is safe. His instincts scream at him. He right out ignores them. The door closes behind him.

Inside, Clarke instructs him to sit on the bed, take off his jacket and shirt. Murphy reluctantly does as told, wincing as he has to pull the shirt over his head.

The blonde briefly travels her eyes over his skin, and Murphy lets her without protest.

“Is that okay?” she asks with his naked form under her eyes, taking in all the scars and bruises.

Murphy gets goosebumps. Feels little prickles traveling up his spine and down his abdomen. They feel a lot like tiny thorns, but he refuses to let her see him tremble. 

“Fine.” He mutters without looking at her.

She only nods at that, then proceeds to follow the general procedure; she tells Murphy to breathe, to move a certain way or tell her how much a bruise hurts. She brings a medical torch to his eyes to make sure he’s not suffering a concussion and gives him a towel to hold over the wound on his head. Overall it’s not too bad. She tells him he needs rest and to be checked on every few hours, but she won't make him stay at the hospital and Murphy feels grateful.

She cleans most of the blood in silence and wraps the largest of bruises in bandages without asking any questions. Just like Bellamy promised. Not that he has him to thank for that. Rather the girl’s bizarre kindness.

“So,” she starts once the prolonged quiet is becoming uncomfortable for both of them. “How do you know Bellamy?” she asks, already moving to stitch a rather deep cut on his forehead.

Murphy stares at the wall behind her. “Bumped into him.” He says, then gulps when the blonde’s bright eyes pause over his briefly. She seems to understand a lot more than he lets on. Maybe even more than he himself knows.

She smiles, eyes turning back to her work. “How old are you?” she asks, and Murphy squints at the question.

“Nineteen.” He says simply and the girl nods, without any of the questions that usually follow.

What are you doing with your life? Why are you in this mess? Do you want it to be like this forever? He used to hear these a lot when he was younger. All those people who loved to talk about it – never wanted to do anything about it. Not that Murphy would’ve cared if they did do something anyway. And as he grew older, less and less people seemed to bother to care, himself included.

Still, he was glad he didn’t have to hear all these questions from her.

After working in silence for another short while, she suddenly pulls back, holding Murphy's tired, dark gaze in her own lively blues that now seem gloomed over by what he can only read as worry.

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, before finally speaking. “Bellamy…He didn’t do this to you, did he?”

Murphy stares at her for a moment, then looks away. He shakes his head. “No.” he mumbles quietly.

“Are you sure?” She asks again and Murphy can't help but turn his attention to her. He also can't help but wonder briefly what this means for the man, if the person he trusts has to ask twice, just in case.

He looks at her seriously, if not a little uneasy at her worried tone.

“He didn’t do anything to me.” He admits, almost to himself as well, eyes falling to his lap.

“Okay,” the other breathes out and a smile breaks on her lips. Everything in the room suddenly feels lighter. “Good.” She says, “Or I’d _really_ give him away.”

Murphy looks shocked. “You would?” he asks.

Clarke pulls away to look at him again, her expression serious. “Of course I would.” She says and Murphy just looks at her, trying to figure her out until she leans back in and continues her work.

A while later she announces she’s done. She gives Murphy a couple painkillers and some juice. When he stands from the bed he feels better. Not great. But better.

At least Clarke had been nice enough to clean the smudged blood from his lips and neck. Not much she could do for the bruises, however. Nothing some ice can’t fix, she'd said. When it came to the wound on his head, she'd advised lots of rest, no running, or sudden movements, or getting into fights. Murphy had nodded through all of it.

“Bellamy’s gonna take you home?” Clarke asks before opening the door to let Murphy out.

The other pauses for a moment. His first instinct is to shake his head that, no, Bellamy isn’t going to be taking him home. Because he doesn’t have one. And he's pretty sure Bellamy has had enough of him taking up his space and eating his food and acting up like the man hasn’t been doing him a favor for not killing him, or hurting him, or doing God knows what to him the second he found him in his house.

His second instinct, though, tells him that Clarke will never let him leave unless she’s sure he has somewhere to go. So he nods. Tells her Bellamy is driving him.

She opens the door and Bellamy is already waiting outside. He looks tired, his brows furrowed. Murphy almost hesitates to step out and towards him.

“Patient’s ready,” Clarke smiles and Bellamy looks at her softly.

“Thank you.” He says. She just shakes her head that it’s no problem.

“I expect no less than your best wine.” She says and the other chuckles.

They turn and leave, Murphy nodding shortly at her before he does and Clarke waving at him goodbye.

* * *

 

He finds himself sitting in the car beside Bellamy, the quiet stretching between them.

“How bad is it?” asks the brunet, looking over at him almost sadly.

“It’s fine.” replies Murphy. It still sounds a little bitter, although lacking any of the hatred and heat it did before. “Been worse.” Bellamy thinks he hears him mutter. In the end, he just sounds tired.

“Your friend seems nice.” Murphy finally says, because it’s the truth. And because he can't take anymore of this pain sitting on his chest. He just wants to get all of this over with.

“She is.” replies Bellamy, cracking a smile. Then his expression turns serious.

“I'm sorry I didn’t tell you–” He starts, but Murphy shakes his head. It really doesn’t matter now.

There’s a long pause, then “You don’t have anywhere to go.” He hears Bellamy say. Murphy can only stare at his hands, the bandages turning red where his knuckles are.

  
“Murphy I'm sorry.” The man says suddenly, and his voice sounds deep and gravely and wrong. The boy stiffens, he dares only shift his glance sideways.

  
“I can't let you go like this.” His tone is dropping deeper,

  
“I won't.” He says to the boy who half an hour ago had been kicking and screaming to get away from him.

  
He's not looking at Murphy, looking anywhere _but_ Murphy. His hands and the steering wheel and the faded blue of his jeans.

  
“So…” Murphy swallows, “You're not letting me go.” His voice cracks, and it’s almost a question.

He doesn’t know if he should be glad or terrified. Part of him is relieved. The other part is nervous and ridden with suspicion. He doesn’t know if Bellamy is possessive, or crazy, or stupid to want to take him in again. In his mind, it’s hard to consider there not being an ulterior motive to it.

The anxiety ties his stomach in knots, his heart thudding in his chest.

  
“Why?” He asks out of all the things swimming in his head.

  
Bellamy grits his teeth, staring downcast. He sighs, long and dry.

He rubs his eyes with one hand, the other in a grip over his knee, but he remains silent. What is there even to say?

“Murphy. .” he trails.

“It wasn’t true.” The other says thickly, “What they said,” he grits his teeth.

It had been once. When he was younger and didn’t know and couldn’t understand. When he’d run away after his mother’s death and had been starving for days. A man had promised him money. Little Johnny had nodded and kneeled. Years later he realized. But by then, it almost felt too late. Other times, it just felt too easy. A swift way to a crappy meal, a little less of an empty stomach. He'd tried too many times to stop selling the only thing he owned. But survival always managed to win over pride. Over disgust and fear. He never knew what he wanted to live for so badly. But the need would always drive him.

“I don’t care about that.” The man rasps suddenly, and he's looking at him with furrowed brows, like Murphy still doesn't get the point.

“You don’t?” His voice flaters and he raises his head to stare back at the man.

“No.” Bellamy says quietly and Murphy looks at him like he wants to believe him.

Then he turns away again. “I got you that lead.” He says, and Bellamy squints, looking puzzled.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“That lead you needed,” Murphy says, “I talked to some people. They’ve seen a guy going around the city, giving away some new drug.” He can feel the man staring at him, both perplexion and awe in his eyes. “They’ve gotten his plates.” He looks at the man like it’s no big deal, yet his heart is thrumming.

“Are you serious?” the man says bewildered.

Murphy nods once, then glances back down at his hands. “I was coming back to tell you,” He says. “But they saw me,” he bites his tongue. If Bellamy hadn’t showed up he'd be dead, he knows.

“I'm sorry.” The man says. Murphy thinks he hasn’t heard more guilt in another’s voice before. Still, he only nods.

“We should go home.” Bellamy says. “I know you don’t want to.”

Murphy stays quiet. Is it weird that he actually does?

“You need rest.” The man says.

Murphy nods. He wants to ask a million things. How long is he allowed to stay? How long is _Bellamy_ keeping him? Can he say no or yes or maybe, and does it matter? What’s to happen to him if he turns to the man right now, or in a week, and tells him he wants to leave? Will the other just let him go?

So many questions, yet he asks none. He tells himself he’ll find out in due time. He always has.

In the end, he pushes everything aside. “There better not be any pineapple.” He says.

He hears the man chuckle softly.

“You didn’t hate it _that_ much.” Bellamy says and Murphy quirks an eyebrow, glancing up at him.

“Fine,” the man says, “You can pick dinner.” And Murphy smirks. Bellamy can say he's missed it.

As they drive, Murphy can't help but turn Bellamy's word in his mind; _home_ , he thinks and something warm and strange settles in his heart. He's not bothered once, when Bellamy seems to embody the word, each time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it kiddos! May the new year bring you everything you wish for and more!
> 
> Leave a comment, tell me what you liked, what you didn't, and as always correct me if there's any mistakes! Your comments is what keeps me trying on this, so thank you so much for helping me continue writing and for not letting me give this up! You are all so damn wonderful!
> 
> You can find me on [richard-harmon-gifs](http://richard-harmon-gifs.tumblr.com)!


	7. Self-Told Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He changes into the pajamas Bellamy gave him in the bathroom, decidedly turning the man down when he offers to help, and then doing the same the next couple times he asks. He's not scared. He really isn’t. It’s not that he's afraid that one accidental touch will lead to another and then another, until Bellamy's realized how easy it is to touch Murphy, and then it never stops.
> 
> He's not scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Did you know it's possible for a human to watch 70 episodes in four days or less, and literally no one will try to stop you?~ 
> 
> I'm so sorry for testing your patience, guys. Really, I am. I hope a semi-less-angsty chapter makes up for it.

The man turns the lights on once they get inside, Murphy following in after him. He locks the door behind them. When he looks up, the boy’s already disappearing in the living room.

Bellamy feels a little smile tugging at his lips at the thought that maybe, just maybe, Murphy’s starting to feel comfortable enough to walk around the house  without the need to always check over his shoulder. It feels like sort of a win, and Bellamy’s sure it definitely is.

The room is warm as he approaches and he vaguely remembers leaving the fireplace on before leaving. He leans against the wall while Murphy tries to get comfortable in the sofa, groaning softly as he does.

“Need help?” he asks, but the boy shakes his head before he can move towards him.

“’m fine,” he mumbles, “Just my shoulder.”

He shifts and turns a few more times, painfully aware of the man’s intence gaze on him as he tries to find the position that hurts him least.

He’s not exactly comfortable when he finally settles, but at least his back and head are resting.

“Clarke didn’t wrap it?” Bellamy asks when Murphy goes to massage his shoulder, only to wince at the touch.

“It’s not broken or anything.” he says, and sure enough, Bellamy can see the red and blue-ish bruises forming under the ripped jacket.

“You should use some ice.” Bellamy says quietly, and Murphy nods.

“Yeah,” he says, “Your friend said that, too.” But he almost sounds guilty.

“Be right back,” the other says and leaves the room, feeling always a step too slow to catch Murphy’s way of thinking.

A moment later, he returns. “I’ve got a couple ice packs,” he says, putting them to the table, “And a bunch of these jelly stuff.”

The boy chuckles. “You get punched a lot?” he asks with the ever-present smirk.

Bellamy can’t help but return it. “My sister was.” He says. Murphy just tilts his head, kind of nods, something unreadable playing behind his eyes.

The other stands awkwardly there for a moment.

“You should take off the jacket,” he says finally.

Murphy stares at him. Vivid blue eyes searching on him almost warily, pinning him with a silent dare, so intensely Bellamy thinks it’s leaving marks on his soul. Until he’s forced to avert his gaze downwards, cough around the lump in his throat.

A moment later, and it’s gone. Murphy just nods. “Yeah, probably.” He mutters, and proceeds to try and shrug the jacket off.

He only ends up flinching; his back and ribs complaining at the movement. He almost has an elbow free, when a sudden jolt of pain sparks from his spine to his chest and cuts his breath short.

Murphy winces visibly, teeth gritted against the pained moan that wants to escape his lips. Bellamy is standing right above him before he even realizes.

“Come on, let me help you,” he mumbles, and Murphy does.

He blows out a breath and lets, or rather wills himself to relax in the older man’s hold.

Bellamy places his hands carefully on his shoulders and slowly slides the jacket back and then down, cautiously freeing one arm and then the other. It’s the first time Murphy’s allowing him to get this close, he realizes, and something about that thought sends a spark to his heart of both dread and affection.

“There,” he says as he folds the, now probably useless, jacket.

The boy looks at up him, his blue eyes more serious than he’s ever seen them.

“Thanks.” He mumbles.

Bellamy steps back, the space between them returning the same as before, and he has to persuade himself that this isn’t irritation he’s feeling, he’s not just standing there with a misplaced sense of discomfort and annoyance, not standing there like he misses it.

In the end, he just clears his throat. Turns his attention to the ice packs resting on the table.

“Keep this on your shoulder,” he says, handing Murphy the gel, “And these are for…everywhere else.”

Murphy takes the packs from Bellamy, keeping them in his lap. “Okay,” he says, almost too quietly.

The brunet stands there for a second; staring at him as if he wants to say something. Murphy waits for him.

Bellamy ends up gulping down his thoughts, coughing around them to clear his throat. “I'm gonna make us something to eat,” he says finally.

He lingers there for a moment, then continues, “Clarke said you might feel a little faint, or get some vertigo so, if you feel anything…”

“I’ll call you.” Murphy assures.

Bellamy smiles at him, “Good,” he says, and goes to leave the room, glancing at him one last time before he does.

 

* * *

 

Murphy sighs for the fifth, or maybe tenth, time as his glance travels from one wall to the other. It’s been less than twenty minutes and he’s already bored out of his mind. He can’t focus on much to think about, his head is throbbing with a dull but constant pain and he can’t even watch TV since that’d be recipe for torture.

He's left alone in the dimly lit room, the warmth from the fireplace making him feel all tired and fuzzy, but still not enough to surpass the ache in his whole body to let him sleep. He absently realizes he can hear Bellamy work in the kitchen; the soft clanks and bumps of a knife cutting or a spoon stirring and suddenly he’s had enough of lying down.

  
Bellamy doesn’t realize until Murphy's bent on the door frame, regretting his decision to ever get up and life in general. Not that he'd ever let the other know that.

The brunet spins around the moment he feels there’s someone standing behind him. He almost drops his spoon when he sees Murphy there.

“Murphy,” he says worriedly, but his brows soon furrow, “The hell you doing up?” his voice rings in Murphy's chest as he advances towards him, and he’d never admit that he's too scared, yet he staggers a step away from the door before Bellamy even reaches him.

  
The other freezes in his tracks.

  
“Easy,” the boy tries. When the other doesn’t say anything, Murphy smirks up at him, as if he’s not trembling just a few feet away from Bellamy. “I was dying of boredom anyway.”

“That’s a terrible excuse.” Bellamy says. Murphy shrugs. It’s a mistake.

He grunts both in pain and irritation with himself. Bellamy wants to reach out to him, yet he knows better this time.

Though he certainly looks worse now. Under the white light. His jaw is bruised and there’s blood on his cheeks and on his lips and above his eyebrows. His hair looks disheveled and messy and pointing in all the wrong directions. It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so sad. He's not standing at his height, just a bit hunched over and leaning to the right, an arm over his stomach and across his ribs.

Bellamy sighs. “Come on. Sit down.” He says and extends an arm for Murphy. His heart jumps a beat when the boy actually takes it.

He leads him to the closest chair and helps him sit down. It’s definitely not the best position for someone with strained ribs and a possible concussion but Murphy came to him. And doing anything other than what Murphy needs isn’t an option Bellamy wants to explore.

  
He's made enough decisions for the boy already.

  
“What are you cooking?” Murphy asks.

Bellamy stirs the cream while looking at him from the side,

“Butter chicken,” he says. “With sweet and sour cream, tomatoes and chili.”

“And steamed rice.” Murphy adds with a smirk.

Bellamy stops mid-stir. “And steamed rice,” he agrees, looking at him with an intrigued kind of smile.

“Mhm.” Murphy makes an impressed sound, “Where’s your garlic and ginger?” he asks all teasingly.

Bellamy turns all the way to face him, a surprised smile on his lips. He crosses his arms over his chest, “I made some adjustments,” he defends.

Murphy scoffs, but Bellamy can tell there's nothing ill-mannered about it.

“Add some honey to the rice while you’re at it.” He says with a playful grin.

A soft chuckle escapes Bellamy as he turns back to the pot and fry pan, “You know your recipes,” he says.

“I do,” Murphy agrees; sounds proud.

“How did that happen?” he quirks an eyebrow at him.

“After dad died.” Murphy says. Somehow it’s not enough to beat the proud smirk off his lips. “Mom wasn’t happy. Had to eat something.”

Bellamy shakes his head, “So you made chicken with butter, ginger and honey.”

“A time or two.” Murphy admits, “She wasn’t happy about that either.”

Bellamy turns to look at him, but a sizzling chicken demands his attention. By the time he’s dealt with it, it feels too late to say anything.

He’s left imagining little Murphy, showing off the dish to his mother, all proud and smiling. Murphy smiling. Not knowing what a smirk was then. His eyes all bright and vivid. All the life and happiness draining when his mother doesn’t pay attention to him.      

And Murphy's left remembering. The kid, that only his memory is proof for existing, scrambling to save the frying chicken and getting a nasty burn. His mother’s screams louder than the pain. Because he woke her up. Because he wasted money on this. On him.

  
It’s too late to say anything. And they leave it at that.  
 

* * *

 

Dinner is mostly quiet, just the sounds of their spoons and the occasional small talk.

“Tastes good?”

“Good enough for an amateur.”

“Amateur?”

“You didn’t even know to use lemon with the honey.”

“ _Why_ would you use-”  

“Oh my god.”

  
Until Bellamy just can't help himself. Murphy isn’t even surprised.

  
“What do you say we do some shopping tomorrow?” he asks without looking up.

Murphy can't decide if wants to be suspicious or given up on trying to understand Bellamy. He settles somewhere in the middle.

“Can't really move,” he says.

“Thank god for the internet then,” Bellamy teases. Murphy puts his spoon down, and takes a moment to exhale all the air in his lungs.

“Everything okay?” the man asks and his tone has gone serious. Murphy swallows.

“Look,” he starts. He's not looking at Bellamy.

“I don’t want to offend you or anything. .” he steals a glance, and he might not look it, but Bellamy can _hear_ that he's honest to God scared that he might offend him. And the realization hurts.

“I can’t.” Murphy says carefully, swallowing thickly.

“What do you mean?” Bellamy asks.

Murphy scoffs softly. Like he has to explain how the world works to a child. “Come on, Bellamy,” he says, “You’ve done enough already.”

“Yeah,” the other nods in agreement. “And you’ve _worked_ with me, Murphy.”

The boy goes to shake his head, but Bellamy stops him. “Half of the people we visited wouldn’t have given me anything if it weren’t for you.” He says, and sure enough, today’s morning seems so far away after everything that’s happened.

“You _somehow_ got me a lead, and you got beat up thanks to that.”

“That had nothing to do with it.” Murphy says. “It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it though?” Bellamy says almost sounding guilty.

If it was any other day, Murphy would’ve been angry and furious. Would’ve been yelling and seething that he's not something for Bellamy to care for. He's not something to be protected. He _can't_ protect him, he can't _save_ him. He doesn’t want him to!

  
Yet,

  
Bellamy had. Hadn’t he?

  
Even if it wounded Murphy's pride to admit it. If Bellamy hadn’t stepped in when he did, he'd probably be dead. And if he hadn’t let them go, he'd be sitting in a jail cell.

He stays quiet. Not looking at Bellamy. Not knowing how to deal with owing this much to a person.

  
The man at the other side of the table sighs quietly.

“Would it be better to swim in my clothes all week?” he tries to tease. It doesn’t work.

“Better than getting used to all this.” Murphy rasps.

“What are you worried about?” the other asks and his voice is warm and deep and rocky in the back of his throat. “That I'm gonna, what? Kick you out suddenly?”

“Well, you certainly aren’t gonna be doing this forever.”

“Maybe.” Bellamy says. “We’ll find out, I guess.”

But Murphy doesn’t _need_ to find out. He _knows_ this ends with him on the streets struggling to survive like it had never been any different.

“…So?” Bellamy asks again, reluctantly this time.

Murphy looks at him confused, “What?”

“You up for shopping tomorrow?”

The boy shakes his head, surprising both with a soft chuckle. Not that Bellamy didn’t surprise him first. He all but expected the man to simply announce he's buying him new stuff without asking him twice if he's okay with it.

“Fine,” he says, and Bellamy smiles at him like he's won the argument. Murphy persuades himself he's too tired to not let him have it.

“Finish up,” the man says then, standing up, “I'm gonna find something comfortable for the night.” And he leaves the room.

 

* * *

 

They’ve both decided it’s better if Murphy sleeps on the couch. He won’t have to move up and down the stairs and Bellamy can lay on the sofa right across to check on him whenever he needs to.

He changes into the pajamas Bellamy gave him in the bathroom, decidedly turning the man down when he offers to help, and then doing the same the next couple times he asks. He's not scared. He really isn’t. It’s not that he's afraid that one accidental touch will lead to another and then another, until Bellamy's realized how easy it is to touch Murphy, and then it never stops.

  
He's not scared.

  
His dignity has just taken enough blows for a day, he decides. That’s why he's struggling out of his bloody clothes huddled against the bathroom’s wall with the door locked, teeth about to break against each other. He has to bend over to put on the pants, and suddenly there's tears blurring his vision.

Murphy gasps, bites his lips, but he looks more angry than in pain. He washes his face once he's finished. It never happened.

When he steps out of the bathroom, Bellamy's standing right there, wearing a worried expression, and Murphy greets him with a smirk.

 

* * *

 

“Am I gonna be waking up every couple hours?” the boy groans as Bellamy carefully tucks the blankets over his shoulders.

“No,” he says, “ _I'm_ gonna be waking up every couple hours, to check your pulse and that you're breathing right.” Bellamy drops in the sofa, a single blanket around his shoulders, “ _You_ need rest.”

Murphy is quiet for a moment. “Thanks.” He mutters in the end.

Bellamy just nods; a soft smile on his lips like it’s no big deal.

“'Night.” The man says and lays his head back.

“..'Night.” Murphy mumbles. And sleep comes easy this time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for your patience and all your amazing comments guys!
> 
> If you'd like to read some more Murphamy, you can check out my other Fic **[The Knight& The Thief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14094312)**. But take a look at the tags before you do so. It's basically 6.6k of heavy angst before either the characters or you get to breathe. I know many of you will love it. But it's not supposed to be a light read.
> 
> **Please don't forget to Kudos and leave a comment!**
> 
> **Till next time!**


	8. Got The Burns To Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a few minutes later that Mbege speaks again.
> 
> “What if he knows?” He asks, voice low and serious.
> 
> Murphy whips his head around to look at him.
> 
> “What if he knows about you, Murph?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A cookie for anyone who can explain how "accusing vs accusatory" works to me. Like. What the hell.

Uneventful, is what he'd call the next morning. Or noon. It’s basically past twelve. And it’s almost concerning that nothing else weird has happened yet.

They have breakfast in bed. Or couch. Whatever. They make small talk. Apparently Bellamy isn’t turning in to the precinct, to secure a valuable source of information. Ditching the department for him, is what that means, and Murphy can't find it in himself to complain.

Somehow Bellamy already has a few sites pulled up before he even wakes up. They spend a good few hours together in the couch, all snark and sarcasm and soft chuckles at today’s fashion, spending more time shaking heads than actually buying anything.

They see some good stuff as well, but Murphy never seems ready to ask Bellamy if he could have them. So Bellamy does what any other normal person would. He tries to remember all of them.

They get some undergarments and a couple pairs of sweatpants and shirts. It’s certainly not enough, but it’s all Murphy can allow right now, so Bellamy tries not to push.

Around afternoon they heat up yesterday’s leftovers and eat in the living room. The TV is playing softly in the background, and Bellamy has turned a light on to help Murphy's brain adjust to a little more stimulation. After the meal, he offers him some painkillers, which Murphy takes gratefully.

“Wanna take a bath?” Bellamy asks after a while, “We’ve got to change the bandages. Clarke said warm water might help with the strained muscle.”

And, okay, sure, the sound of a warm bath and getting rid of all the dried blood on his body sounds good to Murphy.

“Yeah, sure.” He says with a small smirk, trying not to sound too eager.

“Good,” Bellamy smiles back, “I'm gonna prepare the water.”

Not longer than thirty minutes later, Bellamy's helping him to the bathroom. He has the heater on in there, the atmosphere warm and cradling Murphy in, easing his nerves down as soon as he steps in the room.

“Leave the water running,” he hears Bellamy say behind him, “I left the tap open so the water can get filtered.” He says. Murphy nods.

Then Bellamy is in front of him, handing him a bottle. “Only use this.” He says. “Anything else will sting like hell.”

Murphy scoffs, “You're way too prepared for this.” He says. “I'm almost scared to meet your sister.” Bellamy can’t help the chuckle playing on his lips.

“Anything else?” Murphy asks.

The other nods. “Go easy on your hair.” He says seriously. “If you pull too hard you might faint in the bathtub.”

“Noted.” Murphy says.

Then Bellamy presents him with a small, arranged pile. “Towels, briefs, clothes, socks.” He says pointing at each level of the stack, then leaves it next to the sink.

“If you need anything,” he starts,

“I’ll call you.” Murphy finishes.

“Good.” Bellamy nods, “Take all the time you need.”

“Okay.” Murphy says. “Thanks.”

Bellamy leaves. Closes the door behind him.

Murphy breathes.

It’s quiet. A little dark. There’s already steam floating on the tiled floor, warm and welcoming and so, so foreign. Such a different sensation from what he’s used to. He stretches his fingers slowly, as if to reach out to it, make sure it’s real. His eyes glistening under the dim light when he glances back up.

The heat wraps him in, his mind feeling like it’s floating. Bellamy was thoughtful to bring a floor lamp in the corner of the room, keeping the other lights off. The whole room is bathed in hues of honey and gold, reflecting on the white and gray tiles.

Murphy steps on the carpet, soft under his feet, and starts taking off his clothes. It’s easier this time, since the pajamas are a few sizes too big. He dumps them on the floor, since they're dirtied with blood anyway, and steps in the bathtub, slowly sinking in the warm water until it reaches his neck.

He sucks in a breath, the sensation of all his muscles unlocking and relaxing being so instant and unfamiliar that he thinks he's losing his grip on the real world. He tries to exhale. Then inhale. Repeating slowly. Until he starts to get used to the feeling of all the tension leaving, not there to keep his bones together anymore.

He lays his head back, on the towel Bellamy left there for him, as if he knew, and lets himself sink in the relaxing warmth, listening to his breaths and the running water, closing his eyes and moaning quietly at the comfort.

He spends ten, maybe twenty minutes, just lying there. Keeping his eyes closed or trailing on the ceiling. The water never gets cold, and Bellamy never shouts that he's wasted enough. He never even knocks on the door. Murphy briefly wanders if he's dreaming, but he just smirks and shakes his head at the thought.

With a sigh he sits up, and starts cleaning the blood and dirt off of his skin. He washes his face, and the parts of his body that he can reach without moving too much, and lets the water do the rest of the work for him. When he’s about to start with his hair, he actually reminds himself of Bellamy's warning, and tries to move as gently as possible.

It’s actually weird. To have the time to himself to do this at his own pace, without being rushed out of the bathtub or the water turning crystal cold in the process.

He's not sure how much time has passed when he turns the water off and gets out of the tub, but he's sure it isn’t little. That’s when he realizes he’s completely lost track of time.

He dries himself off and puts on the clothes Bellamy left for him – a pair of black sweatpants, a gray shirt and black socks – and leaves the bathroom, looking for Bellamy and finally finding him in the living room.

The man smiles up at him when he spots him, “Feeling better?” he asks.

Murphy doesn’t step in the room. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “How long did I take?”

Bellamy looks at the time on his phone, “An hour and half,” he says like it’s no big deal.

Murphy has the sudden urge to start running, “Sorry.” he says.

Bellamy merely shrugs. “I usually take two.” Then he sits up straight.

“Come on,” he says. “Sit down.” And Murphy does, no matter how fast his heart is beating.

He sits close to Bellamy, who hands him a jar of cream. “Massage your ribs with this,” he says, “It'll keep them warm under the bandages.”

Murphy frowns, but eventually does as he's told. It just feels too easy. It’s not like anyone he knows to pass up an opportunity to get their hands all over him. Not when it’s obvious he won't be able to fight back. And he has to keep reminding himself that Bellamy isn’t like that. He doesn’t know why, or for how long, but he isn’t.

The man sits behind him, his hands warm and barely touching as he carefully lifts up his shirt and sticks a patch to his back, explaining that it will help his muscles to heal faster. Murphy sucks in a breath, hands balling into fists above his knees, and he nods once.

Bellamy proceeds to wrap the bandage around his torso, making sure it’s firm but not too tight.

It’s not the most awkward interaction they’ve had since they met, but Murphy can't help but need to fill the quiet somehow.

“Why that uniform?” He asks suddenly, and it’s something that’s actually been bugging him since yesterday morning.

Bellamy’s sitting in front of him, now wrapping the bandages around his waist. He looks up at Murphy's question, tilting his head in confusion.

“You said you are chief, right?” the boy says, “I thought you didn’t need to wear that.”

At that, Bellamy chuckles. “I don’t.” He states.

“It’s more of a habit.”

Murphy scoffs, “Weird habit,” he says, Bellamy simply shrugs. “How did you become chief?” he asks.

“Captain.” says Bellamy.

“Hm?”

“Just captain, actually,” he explains, giving Murphy a half apologetic look, “not chief.”

When the boy doesn’t seem to react to the revelation in any way but a slightly raised eyebrow, Bellamy looks back down, at the gauze roll in his hands.

“That’s why they can bury this case. I think they're already trying to.” He says.

Murphy stares at him for a moment. Bellamy knows because he can feel his eyes on the top of his head. He’s knelt down in front of him now, finishing off at his ribs. When he looks up there's something dark and dry in the boy’s eyes, but it’s gone in a second.

Murphy blinks once, clears his throat. “So, you got elected or something?”

“Or something.” Bellamy says. “We’re a big department. I was on homicides, working on a case,” he gets up from the floor, sits next to Murphy with a somber look and his hands clasping each other.

“The captain had been helping me with it. Turned out, he was involved. He’d been expecting me to swing his way.” He smiles bitterly. “Turning him in actually came as a surprise.”

Murphy snorts lightly next to him. “Should have known you're a hero.” His voice comes playful. And Bellamy can't help the soft chuckle on his lips.

“That’s what they said, too.” He continues. “Gave me two golds and called me captain.”

Murphy shifts around slightly so his back is resting on the pillows, “You don’t sound very excited about it.” He says.

“Couldn’t care less about it.” Bellamy utters. “As I said, I was on the case, leading the investigation,” he pauses, takes a moment to breathe, let the memory soak back in behind his eyes, still as vivid as it’s always been.

“They framed someone.” He says. “I fell for it. Multiple homicide. Thirty people, maybe more, some kids–” he bites his lip until it hurts.

“His trial had been quick. The verdict was death.” Bellamy exhales a breath, the kind that’d sound angry, if only it weren’t so damn tired.

“I realized what was going on just minutes before the sentence. They had already emptied the first vial in him.”

He's not looking at Murphy, but he knows the boy is frowning.

He's about to deem this conversation finished, when the other decides to speak.

“Well, at least he's alive.” He says, not a tone of judgment in his voice.

Bellamy doesn't feel like he deserves it. “He was my sister’s boyfriend.” He says.

“Oh.”

_Yeah._

Bellamy nods. “She begged me not to.” He says. “When I arrested him. She was there during the sentence. What happened afterwards didn’t matter.”

“That’s why she left.” Murphy mutters.

Again, Bellamy nods. “She never forgave me.” He says, tries to turn to look at Murphy, only to find out he really can't.

For a moment, there's silence. Just the sound of his sister’s screams in his mind. Both before, and afterwards. Blaming him for everything, for his very existence, looking at him like the monster under the bed that he’d once swore to protect her from.

“Well that’s fucking stupid.” Murphy's voice comes suddenly, and this time Bellamy turns to look at him. “It’s not like you wanted him to be guilty.”

Bellamy smiles. And wouldn't it be so very easy? So much easier to just believe Murphy. He, himself had tried many times to persuade himself. It always seemed like such a simple way to escape. Just shrug the jacket of guilt off. Dump his mistakes for someone else to carry. His heart almost craves it.

In the end, he shakes his head.

“No…” he says, “I did.”

“I didn’t like them together. Guy looked like a thug. Dangerous. I became so obsessed with proving that he's not good for her that I almost killed him, and destroyed her.”

“I was also the reason they framed him and not somebody else. Captain knew I didn’t like him.”

Murphy gives him a look, long and calculating. There's a small frown in his eyes, yet Bellamy can't read what it means.

“They'd have framed someone anyway.” He says. “Probably would’ve died.”

Bellamy glances up, soft brown eyes looking at him, “Maybe.” He mutters, then smiles, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter either way.”

“Just talk to her.” Murphy sighs.

“How?” Bellamy asks. “She won't pick up the phone. I had to put out an APB just to find her. When I went to see her…” He smiles, but it’s far from happy. “She sent me to the hospital.”

“Ouch.” Murphy says lightly, but there's a deep frown decorating his features.

“Yeah,” Bellamy trails, “It’s been five months since, but…I don’t think she feels any different.”

“Maybe.” Murphy says. “Maybe not.”

Bellamy’s lying back in the couch, imitating Murphy, his eyes travelling along the ceiling.

“So you're on my side?” he asks only half playfully. The boy turns to look at him.

“Yeah?” he says as if it’d be obvious, “Why?”

Bellamy shrugs. “You don’t seem to like police very much.”

It’s a lousy explanation. Murphy squints, yet he refrains from saying that, yeah, okay, Bellamy might be right. He doesn’t like police. And that’s an understatement. But he doesn’t see Bellamy as _police_ anymore, and, anyway, why the hell would he take the side of someone who can't forgive a mistake of family? If he had any chances with his, he'd forgive everything. He definitely would.

Wouldn't he?

“What would you do if –” Bellamy stops himself abruptly. _If the person responsible was alive? Would you kill him, again?_ he wants to ask, yet he doesn't dare to. The boy is just starting to not look at him like Bellamy is going to eat him, just starting to, dare he say it, trust him. And Bellamy isn’t about to screw that up, no matter how badly he wants answers.

“What would you do if your mother was alive?” he finally asks, and Murphy's breath is cut short.

He blinks, and suddenly he's remembering his dad. His dad’s glassy, lifeless eyes that he'd been forced to watch, his mother’s rough hands digging in his shoulder. He thinks of his mother and alcohol and the smell of vomit, gurgling noises that still haunt his dreams more than her screams ever could.

And the flames, afterwards.

He sees flames before his eyes, flames swallowing a building, a body, his soul. He hears the screams. The flames eating away at everything. And he's standing right across them, empty and colder than ever.

He blinks. When he opens his eyes, everything is gone, and Bellamy's not looking at him.

_What would you do if your mother was alive?_

“I don’t know.” He mutters, his voice tight. “It’s not the same.”

Bellamy nods. That’s not the answer he was looking for. And he wants so badly to tell him that he _knows_. Knows even more than Murphy himself does, and that it’s okay, he'd never hurt him for something he'd done years ago.

And he's almost about to say something, when he realizes that there's no version where he brings it up without Murphy freaking out, glaring at him with those huge, weary, frightened eyes, like Bellamy is holding his life in his hands, and he's expecting him to play with it.

In the end, he sighs.

“I guess.” He says and lets the ghost of a smile tug on his lips. “My sister’s way scarier than you.”

Murphy scoffs in fake offence, “Oh is that so?” he smirks down at him.

Bellamy turns his head to look at him. Dark browns lingering on mesmerizing pale blues, their smiles mirroring, something soft settling in between them, and he wonders if Murphy is feeling it too.

He remembers the first time he saw him, with the crackers falling out of his lap and the small rusted knife in his pocket. The wide, glinting eyes and trembling frame, looking so small and powerless in front of Bellamy, that he couldn’t bring himself to do the one thing he knew.

“Definitely.” He mumbles, lost in those gray blues staring back at him. So used to seeing them just as closed off and guarded as the rest of him, that this sudden break in his armor lulls him in. He thinks he could spend an eternity picking the pieces of Murphy's soul.

The other blinks, and carries the moment away with a soft snort. “You won't be saying that when everyone hears about your Disney collection.” He says.

Bellamy looks at him with wide eyes and a bewildered expression. “Those are – They aren’t – Those aren’t even _mine_!” he staggers.

“No one will believe they are your sister’s either.” The other grins, sounding too much like he's actually considering it.

“Murphy!” Bellamy exclaims. The boy giggles. A small bubbly sound that makes Bellamy's heart shatter.

“Okay. Fine.” He utters in mock exasperation. “You're terrifying.” He says. “Happy?”

“You gotta mean it.” The other teases.

Bellamy sighs, “Who would you even _tell_ , Murphy?” he asks, sure he just got him.

Murphy doesn't lose his grin. “Just a bunch of guys down town.” He says. “Make sure it spreads.” His eyes glint playfully. “Try getting leads then.”

“You wouldn't.” Bellamy warns, too invested in Murphy's mock threat, that he forgets it actually involves him and a Disney collection. I mean, seriously–

“Now’s the time you try to bribe me.” says Murphy.

Bellamy chuckles, “Will ice cream do?” he decides to humor him and watches as Murphy's eyes light up.

“Now that sounds like an acceptable treatment.” He says after a moment.

Bellamy regards him with a smile. “I think there's a store a few blocks from here.” He says, completely ignoring the fact that it’s the middle of winter. “Any preferences?”

And that’s when Murphy freezes, giving him a surprised look as if he wasn’t expecting Bellamy to actually go through with it.

“Um…” he fumbles for a moment, “Va..nilla?” he only says the first thing that comes to mind.

Bellamy squints at him, “Really?” he asks, “You can get anything you want.”

He watches Murphy tilt his head, the wheels turning behind his eyes, looking too hesitant.

“Got any favorites?” he tries again. “What do you usually get?” He asks, then bites his lip instantly. Murphy probably doesn't get _anything_ usually. For all he knows, he hasn’t had ice cream for years.

The boy seems to think about it. “Chocolate chip cookie.” He mutters in the end, “We, uh, we used to get that.”

Bellamy nods, not bothering to ask who “we” refers to. “Okay,” he says, but it sounds like a praise. “See you in ten.”

“'kay.” Murphy smiles up at him and watches Bellamy leave the room. A minute later he hears the front door opening, then closing.

Bellamy walks out of the house, figuring he doesn't need to lock the door. He heads for the car, and he's about to open the door when something comes out of nowhere and slams into him, almost knocking him to the ground.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” He hears someone yell.

It takes him less than a moment to realize what's happened and for his instincts to kick in.

“MURPHY! COME ON!” A young boy shouts and goes to shove Bellamy away again.

This time, he is ready. He grabs the kid’s arm and twists it behind his back, slamming him onto the side of the car. The boy groans, but doesn't stop struggling.

“MURPHY!” He screams again.

“...John?” There suddenly comes a voice from behind them and for a second both men freeze and turn to look at him.

“Murph run!” The young boy shouts, pinned under Bellamy.

Murphy walks down the stairs, his steps slow, calculated. He's frowning down at the scene, yet he makes no move to run or tackle Bellamy. Which is weird, Mbege thinks. There's two of them, and if they tried, he is sure at least one of them could get away.

“What the hell are you doing?!” he shouts, “Go!”

Mbege struggles in the man’s grip again, panic rising in his voice.

“You know this guy?” The cop suddenly addresses Murphy.

“Yeah he’s...he’s a friend.” he says, still looking puzzled.

“A friend?” the cop asks, “You sure?”

Murphy walks closer, “Yeah…” he nods, eyes pinned to the younger boy, “The hell are you doing here?” he asks.

Mbege looks between the two with wide, confused eyes. “Thought I was saving you.” He says accusingly, “Obviously you don’t need it.”

Murphy sighs, shaking his head. “C’mon Bellamy. Let him go.” He mumbles.

“Yeah. How ‘bout you take your hands off me?” Mbege growls.

“How about I arrest you for assaulting an officer?” the cop threatens above him, twisting the boy’s arm further to make his point.

“Bellamy!” Murphy calls suddenly, and the cop freezes. “Let him go, Bellamy.” He almost pleads.

Bellamy regards him for a long minute, then sighs in defeat. He lets go of the boy, giving him a last shove as warning. The other glares at him, and Murphy quickly steps between the two.

Mbege turns to him with a dark look, giving him a once over. “You look like shit.” He declares.

Murphy smirks easily down at him.

“Look who’s talking.” He says to the dark skinned boy.

“That’s racist.” The other says, but doesn't look in the least offended.

“You’re racist.” Murphy retorts and the other smirks.

Then he turns to the cop, who still looks confused and just as pissed, “So, um…” he starts in what's obviously fake courtesy, “Do you mind? I’d like to talk to my friend.” He says.

“Oh, I don’t mind.” Bellamy bites out.

Mbege almost literally turns red. “Hey, what’s your fucking problem?” he growls and advances towards Bellamy.

Murphy has to jump in front of him just to stop him from doing anything stupid. “Dude! Hey!” he calls out, placing his hands on the other’s shoulders. “Stop it. Come on.”

Mbege struggles once, putting strain on Murphy's shoulder. When the other winces in pain, he immediately stops. He shoots the cop an accusatory, threatening look, then turns to Murphy with worry.

“I’m sorry.” he mutters, but the other waves him off. He massages his shoulder for a moment and Mbege takes the time to study all the bruises on his arms and his face, and the way he's not standing straight. His cut lips and the bandages around his knuckles.

“He did this to you?” he asks dryly.

Murphy blinks. “No,” he replies, as if he doesn’t know where he’d get the idea.

Mbege waits for an explanation, but it never comes. “I’m gonna need something more than that.” He states.

Murphy sighs, looking frustrated and about ready to ask him to just drop it. Mbege isn’t going to let that happen.

“What’s he done to you?” he mutters hoarsely.

“I didn’t –”

“I’m not asking you!” he shouts and Murphy being in the middle is the only thing that stops them from going at each other.

“Hey!” Murphy calls, standing inches away from his friend to get his attention. “He didn’t do anything to me, okay?”

He turns to look at the man behind him, then back at his friend. “Bellamy’s cool.” He says.

“He’s a cop!” the other retorts, glaring at Murphy in disbelief.

“I saw you two yesterday.” He says, and watches as the look in Murphy’s eyes turns somber. “Saw how he dragged you all over the damn city! And then suddenly you’re a bloody mess, with a gun to your back! The fuck am I supposed to think?!”

Murphy gulps, takes a step back. “You saw that?” he asks, his voice tight.

“Yeah, you bet.” The other replies. “So you know, it’s just a little weird that you didn’t take the chance to run.” He says and somehow manages to sound both worried and accusing.

His friend sighs, looking at him like Murphy’s some kid that needs help. “The fuck he’s done to you man?” he mutters in a hushed voice.

Murphy shakes his head. “Nothing.” He says. “Yesterday wasn’t his fault.”

The other bites his cheek, contemplating if yelling at Murphy would wake him up, or if it’d be best to just grab him and start running.

“Right,” he seethes. “And whose fault was it, huh? _Yours?_ You weren’t a good little pup and take it like he wanted?”

“Hey!” Bellamy suddenly growls and appears at Murphy’s side, not pushing him away or even laying a hand on him, oddly enough protecting Murphy’s pride instead of his own. “You don’t speak to him like that!” He threats the younger boy.

Murphy sucks in a breath, trying to keep his fists away from the other’s face.

“Chill the fuck down.” He hisses. “We’re not _fucking._ ” Just the word tastes like tar on his tongue.

“Bellamy and I...We have an arrangement.”

“An arrangement?” Mbege looks at him with a bewildered expression. “Are you working for him?” he demands, “What does he make you do Murph?”

“ _It’s not like that._ ” Murphy grits his teeth. He takes a breath, tries to compose himself, “I’m helping him with a case.” He says in the end.

“What?” the other squints in puzzlement, but Murphy knows what he really wants to ask is _why the fuck would you–_

“It’s complicated.” He utters.

Mbege casts him a hard look, but in the end, he sighs in defeat. “Care to explain?” he asks.

Murphy turns to look at Bellamy, who’s currently shooting daggers at the other boy, looking gravely serious and like there's very little stopping him from assault or maybe even murder. For a moment, Murphy almost feels scared to speak. Thankfully, he doesn't have to.

“I’ll be inside.” Bellamy says hoarsely. “If you touch him, I’ll rip your hands off.” Then he turns, starts walking up the stairs.

“Could say the same ‘bout you.” Mbege mutters under his breath.

 If Bellamy hears him, he never seems to acknowledge it.

“You shouldn’t antagonize him.” Murphy says once the man closes the door behind him.

“Why?” Mbege says through gritted teeth. “He’s gonna do to me what he did to you?”

“He didn’t do anything to me.” Murphy states for the hundredth time.

His friend stares at him doubtfully. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Alright.” He says. “This better be good.”

* * *

   
They're sitting on the stairs, and John’s staring at him with wide eyes. “Are you serious?” he utters.

“Yeah,” Murphy trails, looking down at his hands.

“I mean, the guys yesterday? Okay, _that_ I understand. But, _everything_ else? What the hell?”

Murphy snorts. “Yeah, I know.” He says.

“He's just letting you stay?” his friend asks, still disbelieving.

“Pretty much.”

“And he's never–”

“No.” Murphy stops him.

The other shakes his head. “That’s messed up.”

“I don’t know.” says Murphy. “He makes it look like it’s no big deal.”

“And you _trust_ him?” the other pushes.

Murphy bites his cheek. “I'm careful.” He says, but never answers the question.

It’s a few minutes later that Mbege speaks again.

“What if he knows?” He asks, voice low and serious.

Murphy whips his head around to look at him.

“What if he knows about you, Murph?” his friend says again, concern lacing his tone.

“He doesn't.” Murphy states, but he can feel his heart speeding up in his chest.

“How can you be sure?”

“He _doesn't–_ ”

“He’s a _cop_ , Murph. Some guy walks into his house, and you think he hasn’t looked you up?”

Murphy shakes his head, denying the mere possibility. “He wouldn't have let me stay.” He says.

“Wouldn't he?” the other insists. “You’re the main suspect, even with no evidence.” he explains, “What if all this is just a way of getting a confession out of you?”

“No.” Murphy utters, his voice hoarse and shaky. “No, you don’t know him. If he knew I’m the bad guy, I’d be in jail.”

His friend casts him a sad look, “Then why are you even risking it?” he asks, and Murphy turns away from him.

He won't admit – _cannot_ admit – that this man that he's known for less than a week has made him feel safer than anyone, anything else in his life. He can't explain to Mbege that he falls asleep and doesn't have nightmares. That the smell of coffee that lingers in the house and the blankets and his clothes feels familiar. That he eats and takes baths and he talks to Bellamy and he doesn't hate himself, he doesn't feel hated, he doesn't feel like a burden.

“I’m being careful.” He assures the other, still never answering the question, and he knows he’s only lying to himself.

Mbege is silent for a minute, but then he nods. “I hope it’s worth it.” He says. Sounds like he actually means it. Then he sighs a long breath.

“Guess I’ll see you around.” He declares, standing up and helping Murphy to his feet.

“See you around, M.” he returns and stays there for a few minutes, watching his friend disappear down the street.

The sun is already gone when he goes back inside, the late afternoon breeze starting to get colder. Bellamy greets him the moment he shuts the door.

“You stayed.” He says, his deep voice sounding small, uncertain.

Murphy frowns at him, leaning his back against the wall to support his weight. “Who said I was leaving?” he asks.

Bellamy walks closer to him, stopping just a few feet away. “Thought you'd decide to go with your friend.” He confesses.

“I wouldn't just leave.” Murphy says seriously.

Bellamy nods, a guilty smile playing on his lips. “I'm sorry.” He says and takes a few steps closer. “You still up for that ice-cream?”

Murphy lets a soft smirk break on his lips. “Sure.” He mutters.

Bellamy's standing close. So close that he can smell the coffee on his clothes, catch the scent of his ocean-breeze conditioner. It’s intoxicating. The way Bellamy is staring into him, his soft browns falling on his and locking, like pieces of a puzzle. He parts his lips, not sure what he's about to say or do, when suddenly Bellamy's phone rings.

He answers it with an apologetic look. Soon, his features twist into a frown.

“What?” he demands into the phone, “ _When?_ ”

“Okay, thanks.” He hangs up and turns to Murphy with a gravely look.

For a moment, he thinks the boy is looking scared, but he doesn't have time to think about it.

“Ice cream must wait.” He announces. “They just found the plates you gave me.”

Murphy blinks, looking confused, “Where?” he utters.

“At a crime scene.” says Bellamy and he grabs a leather jacket from the coat-rack. “Wanna come?”

Murphy is taken aback for only a second. “Sure.” He says and Bellamy all but beams at him.

He helps Murphy to the car and hands him the leather jacket.

“Put it on.” He urges after a few minutes. “It’s probably cold where we’re going.”

Murphy does as he’s told. Or at least tries to. He winces in pain when he tries to bend his arm and Bellamy turns to him with wide eyes, as if he’d forgotten,

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles. “Wait.” Then he pulls over, literally _pulls over_ to help Murphy in the jacket while there's a crime scene waiting.

Murphy doesn't know what to do except mumble a small “Thank you.”

But Bellamy shakes his head. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes once again. “It’s important we’re first at the scene.” he explains.

Murphy just nods, not sure what else to say.

When they arrive at the river, the place is already crowded with firemen and paramedics, yet there's only two other police cars waiting. Bellamy quickly gets out of the car, but still reminds himself to wait for the boy.

Murphy steps out of the car and his head instantly lets him know it’s a bad idea in the form of a migraine. The loud noises and flashing lights feel like they're digging in his brain, and he's forced to shut his eyes. He thinks he's lost Bellamy, when a shadow looms over him.

“You alright?” Bellamy asks, sounding worried, all the previous anxiety about the crime scene suddenly gone. He stops in front of Murphy in an attempt to guard him from the lights and places a firm hand on his shoulder to steady him.  

Murphy blinks, slowly adjusting to his surroundings. “I'm fine.” He nods. “Lead the way.”

Bellamy’s looking at him seriously, almost like he's about to send Murphy back to the car. Then a female voice is calling his name.

“Bellamy! Over here!” A woman with short, light brown hair calls to him. Bellamy only acknowledges her with a glance.

“You sure you're okay?” he turns back to Murphy.

“I'm fine.” The other assures.

Bellamy looks divided, but in the end, he nods. “C’mon.” he says and Murphy follows him.

“Who’s that?” the same woman from before asks when they reach the yellow tape.

Her inquisitive stare searches all over him, and Murphy's suddenly feeling the urge to shy away behind Bellamy.

“He's with me.” The man announces in a heavy tone.

The woman looks puzzled, but doesn't object. She lets them both through, hands them two pairs of gloves and calls them to follow.

“What have we got?” Bellamy asks the girl as they make their way to a car whose wheels and backseat still seem to be on fire.

“Young male, probably around thirty. No witnesses.” She says.

Bellamy stares at the scene with a troubled look. “What happened?” he asks. Behind him, Murphy looks at everything with wide eyes.

“Car drove into the water. Then, it exploded. Paramedics still can't tell if the victim drowned or was burned alive.”

Bellamy nods. “Do we have an ID?”

“No.” the girl shakes her head. “We couldn’t get any fingerprints off the victim and the plates are stolen. Everything else in the car has either been burned or washed by the water.”

Bellamy shakes his head, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “Great.” He utters, “So we’ve got nothing.”

The girl bites her lip, “For now at least.” she mumbles. “Sorry.”

“This wasn’t an accident.” Bellamy declares.

“No.” the other agrees. “We found half a dozen of these in the car. They’re glass. Hadn’t broken yet.” She presents Bellamy with a small, empty vial.

The officer takes it in his hands, his eyes wide. “Gina,” he starts.

“Bellamy.” The other warns. “Don’t jump into conclusions. We still don’t know anything yet.”

“This is it!” Bellamy exclaims. “That’s the drug they’re making. This is connected.”

“How are you suddenly so sure it’s a drug?” The girl, Gina, retorts. “Bellamy, you shouldn’t rush this.” She says, but the other isn’t listening.

“This isn’t like the others. This is an assassination.” He realizes, “We need to find who this man was.”

He walks past her and starts heading towards the burnt vehicle, where the paramedics are still trying to separate the man from the driver’s seat. He doesn't bother to pay attention to anything else, other than making sure Murphy isn’t struggling to keep up with him.

They stop as close as they’re allowed to, which, to be fair, is pretty damn close. Murphy can smell the odors of burnt skin and leather mixing with each other and he almost gags. Then something about the man catches his eye and everything around him comes to a stop. He straightens, walks next to Bellamy.

There's a silver necklace around the man’s melted neck, and it looks familiar, of course it does, _she’_ s had the same.

He hears Bellamy talking to the doctors. Asking about any possibilities to get an ID, hair, blood, his pants, _anything_. The answer is they’ll do what they can. Bellamy sighs. He sounds tired.

This is the first real evidence of intended murder connected to the case. If they’re too late, whoever’s behind the whole operation will most likely crawl back in the shadows and then they’ll have to start from scratch again, probably will never get as lucky.

“I know who he is.” Murphy rasps.

Bellamy whips around to look at him, as does the girl, who’s managed to catch up with them by now.

“ _What?_ ” he asks, taking a step closer to the boy.

“I know him.” Murphy repeats, louder this time. He looks up at Bellamy to find the man staring at him with wide, quizzical eyes. “His name’s Otan Razzera.” He says.

“How did you recognize him?” Gina inquires, sounding fairly skeptical.

Murphy looks back at the burnt corpse. “I know that necklace.” He replies.

“Really?” the girl pushes but Murphy doesn't even bother to get angry at her. She’s not important. None of these people are. Not when Bellamy is staring at him with stars in his eyes.

“He has a sister.” Murphy tells him seriously. “Her name’s Emori.” He says and the name leaves a taste in his mouth. “Emori Razera.”

“We’ve got to find her.” Bellamy utters. “ _Now._ ”

Murphy nods in agreement. It’s a simple move, but it’s enough to make him feel dizzy.

“C’mon.” Bellamy soothes. “That’s enough for today.” He lets Murphy lean against him and walks with him to the car.

“Are you alright?” he asks once the boy is lying in his seat, away from all the lights and loud voices.

“Fine.” Murphy groans.

Bellamy leans against the door, looking with concern down at Murphy through the open window.

“You need rest,” he says. “I'm gonna let Gina take over from here, okay? Be back in a minute.” He goes to leave, then suddenly, turns back around.

“Murphy?” he calls, and the boy opens his eyes to look at him. “You did really good today.” He says honestly. Murphy sucks in a breath, nods his head in acknowledgement. And if those are tears in his eyes, he’ll never admit it.

Bellamy has already turned away from him, pretending to walk back to the crime scene to find Gina, yet he never actually does. His mind reels with anxiety. He shouldn’t have let his feelings get the better of him. He should’ve never dragged Murphy to a crime scene. The wrong person at the wrong time would be all that it’d take, and Murphy would spend the rest of his life in a cell, or worse. It’s already too late, he thinks.

He's already involved Murphy in this too much without even considering the consequences it could have for him. Two days ago, this seemed like a good idea. Almost an adventure. Now, it feels like a death sentence, with only the boy on the receiving end.

That’s why he decides to do the only thing he can to protect Murphy. He takes the phone in his hands and dials a number.

The receiver is quick to answer it.

“Hey, Monty. It’s Bellamy.” He greets. “I need a favor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter peeps! Mbege was a last minute idea, and I've had so much fun writing him!
> 
> As always, I don't have a beta, so if you spot any mistakes please, _please_ do let me know!
> 
> **Please don't forget to Kudos and leave a comment!**
> 
> This story would've never reached this far if it weren't for your feedback guys!
> 
> Till next time!


	9. Chapters 1-8 (Recap)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Quick recap of certain parts from Ch. 1-8. STRONGLY ADVISED THAT YOU READ PEEPS! God knows how anyone could keep up with my stupid update "schedule".**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Actual chapter will be posted in less than an hour!***

**TIMELINE**

1st Night (Ch.1 & 2) - Murphy finds Bellamy's house, Bellamy lets him stay the night

1st Day (Ch.3 & 4) - Murphy has a not-so-good sleep and Bellamy persuades him to stay a while longer, Gina's introduced and the case as well, at night they have pizza, Bellamy finds out about a darker point in Murphy's past.

2nd Day (Ch.5, 6 & 7) - Bellamy gets Murphy to work with him on the case, they meet some interesting people, Murphy gets beaten up but also gets a lead, Clarke's introduced and lots of feelings take place, at late afternoon there's ice-packs, rise and chicken and Murphy still being wary of the older man.

3rd Day (Ch.8 & **9** ) - They spend the morning at home, Murphy takes a bath, Bellamy changes his bandages and they talk about the past, Mbege's introduced and it's now clear that Murphy's terrified at the thought of Bellamy finding out about his record, they find Otan's body and go to look for Emori, things get revealed by the end of day.

 

**LENGTHY VERSION**

There’s a  _click_  and his eyes shoot open wide, his muscles lock.

He’s suddenly met with a tall man with dark skin and eyes fierce and glowing; arms big and strong and trained, they could so easily  _crush_  Murphy, use him, then tear him apart.

* * *

“I didn’t steal anything, I swear.” He says, voice strangely straight, and draws his hands from his pockets. A few crackers slip through the opening and fall onto the sofa. Murphy stares at them, so does the man.  _Shit._

“Who are you?” the man demands, his voice deep, threatening. Murphy’s scared he might drown.

He takes a breath. He’s already screwed and he knows it.

“John Murphy,” he gulps dryly and forces his lips into a smirk, breaking the terror on his face. “at your service.” And the way he says it just sounds  _wrong_.

“Are you now?” Bellamy asks, only to test.

The smile trembles, but doesn’t falter.

* * *

Murphy feels the pair of hands sliding all over his body, rough, wrinkling his thin clothing, touching here and there, around and below his waist, down his thighs, snaking inside his pockets, slowly, taking hold of his little possessions and dragging them out. The man holds up the knife, standing a little too close, looking over at him accusingly, and Murphy lets a moment pass before he drops his glance from him to the sharp tool.

“First time seeing one of those?” he looks back up, a certain authority glowing in his eyes, like he’s done this before a thousand times. “Or did you think I come from the playground down the street this whole time?”

* * *

“There are worse ways to punish someone.” he utters. Bellamy’s heart freezes.

A sharp breath later, and then, “Is that what you’re afraid of?” he asks, and his voice is soft, “That I’m going to hurt you, over some food?”

Murphy merely shrugs, “It’s what people do, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t.” the other replies and Murphy hates the sad look in his eyes.

“Whatever you say, officer.” he sighs, leaning back into the chair.

* * *

Bellamy frowns. He places a hand on the boy’s shoulder, shakes him lightly to wake him up. He’s not ready for when the other’s eyes snap wide open and he flinches away from his touch, as if he had just held a knife to his throat. He only catches a glimpse of the fearful look in his eyes before it’s replaced by mild confusion, but it’s enough to let him know that he never wants to have to see it again.

He raises his hands in front of him, gets off the couch in an attempt to show that he means no harm.

“Hey, easy.” he says, “It’s just me.” Murphy doesn’t speak, or even looks at him at all. He’s glancing around the room, seeming disoriented and slightly scared. “Hey, Murphy,” he calls and suddenly the boy’s eyes lock with his, the icy blue cutting the breath in his throat.

“You alright?” he asks and Murphy seems to flinch back into reality.

* * *

“So, what have you been doing?”

The boy shrugs a shoulder, “Surviving.” he says and the other scoffs.

“Well, that’s awfully vague.”

“You are the police officer,” he counters, “Why don't you figure it out?”

Bellamy hums, smiling playfully. “Careful,” he says, “I might actually take you up on that challenge.”

“And I’ll be gone long before you do.” Murphy replies, his eyes glinting with just a little bit of truth.

* * *

It’s half an hour later that Bellamy actually musters up the courage to go and wake the boy.  
  
He crouches in front of him, staying there for a long moment before he finally places a careful hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Murphy?” He whispers lightly, trying not to startle the teen, but gets no response.  
  
“..Murphy,” he repeats, shaking his shoulder once, then instantly regrets it.  
  
Wild blues meet his eyes and the boy jerks up and pulls away from his touch as if it’s pure natural instinct.

Bellamy retracts his hand, the smile on his lips not matching the worry in his eyes. He searches for something to say, anything to make it better or learn why it is so bad, but Murphy has already recovered and calmed down upon seeing it’s only him. He prompts himself on his elbows, the fear in his eyes giving way to confusion and maybe some mild annoyance.

* * *

 

Bellamy sighs, “There’s a case. I could use a new perspective.”

Murphy eyes him all the more suspiciously, “What does that have to do with me?”

“I just thought you could help.” says the man.

“..Why?”

Bellamy looks at him seriously, “You don’t want to be a charity case.” He says matter-of-factly. “I’m offering you to work with me.”

* * *

It’s only later that the situation gets dangerously carried away, and Bellamy has to stop Murphy by placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Something that’s immediately followed by him shrugging said hand off and walking away without even glancing back.

Not that Bellamy blames him. The guy has been more keen on commenting on a ‘dirty thug’s presence’ there than he’s ever been interested in answering their questions. Still, something tells Bellamy that name-calling was hardly the source of Murphy's fury.

* * *

“It wasn’t true.” The other says thickly, “What they said,” he grits his teeth.

It had been once. When he was younger and didn’t know and couldn’t understand. When he’d run away after his mother’s death and had been starving for days. A man had promised him money. Little Johnny had nodded and kneeled. Years later he realized. But by then, it almost felt too late. Other times, it just felt as an easy way to a crappy meal, a little less of an empty stomach. He'd tried too many times to stop selling the only thing he owned. But survival always managed to win over pride. Over disgust and fear. He never knew what he wanted to live for so badly. But the need would always drive him.

“I don’t care about that.” The man rasps suddenly, and he's looking at him with furrowed brows, like Murphy still doesn't get the point.

* * *

“What are you worried about?” the other asks and his voice is warm and deep and rocky in the back of his throat. “That I'm gonna, what? Kick you out suddenly?”

“Well, you certainly aren’t gonna be doing this forever.”

“Maybe.” Bellamy says. “We’ll find out, I guess.”

But Murphy doesn’t _need_ to find out. He knows this ends with him on the streets struggling to survive like it had never been any different.

* * *

“Come on,” he says. “Sit down.” And Murphy does, no matter how fast his heart is beating.

He sits close to Bellamy, who hands him a jar of cream. “Massage your ribs with this,” he says, “It'll keep them warm under the bandages.”

Murphy frowns, but eventually does as he's told. It just feels too easy. It’s not like anyone he knows to pass up an opportunity to get their hands all over him. Not when it’s obvious he won't be able to fight back. And he has to keep reminding himself that Bellamy isn’t like that. He doesn’t know why, or for how long, but he isn’t.

* * *

Bellamy shrugs. “You don’t seem to like police very much.”

It’s a lousy explanation. Murphy squints, yet he refrains from saying that, yeah, okay, Bellamy might be right. He doesn’t like police. And that’s an understatement. But he doesn’t see Bellamy as police anymore, and, anyway, why the hell would he take the side of someone who can't forgive a mistake of family? If he had any chances with his, he'd forgive everything. He definitely would.

_Wouldn't he?_

* * *

“He’s a cop, Murph. Some guy walks into his house, and you think he hasn’t looked you up?”

Murphy shakes his head, denying the mere possibility. “He wouldn't have let me stay.” He says.

“Wouldn't he?” the other insists. “You’re the main suspect, even with no evidence.” he explains, “What if all this is just a way of getting a confession out of you?”

“No.” Murphy utters, his voice hoarse and shaky. “No, you don’t know him. If he knew I’m the bad guy, I’d be in jail.”

* * *

Two days ago, this seemed like a good idea. Almost an adventure. Now, it feels like a death sentence, with only the boy on the receiving end.

That’s why he decides to do the only thing he can to protect Murphy. He takes the phone in his hands and dials a number.

The receiver is quick to answer it.

“Hey, Monty. It’s Bellamy.” He greets. “I need a favor.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it peeps! Hope this helped a little. I know my updates are inconsistent but I'm really trying to put out chapters that I like and pour some effort into instead of just writing the first thing that comes to mind, and that for me takes a whole lot of time unfortunately. I hope some of you are still with me though. See you all on the other side.


	10. It's What I've Been (It's Under My Skin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the case progresses, Bellamy finds himself questioning his ideas and morals. Murphy may or may not be have something to do with his sudden epiphany.
> 
> Then boy starts to let him in on the events of his past, and Bellamy gets more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events of this chapter take place in less than three hours, yet my brain somehow managed to stretch it out to 6k words.
> 
> I have no idea how this roller-coaster came to be, but here we are.
> 
>  
> 
> ***Warning. It hurts. Also, re-read the tags and make sure you are okay with everything.***

“We’ve gotta find her.” Murphy says before Bellamy even has the time to close his door properly.

The man looks up, eyes big at Murphy's tone. He’s heard the kid scared before, has heard him angry. But not worried. Never like this.

“We will.” Bellamy mutters seriously.

“I know where she used to live,” says Murphy, “She might still be there.”

Bellamy nods. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll tell Gina to go check.”

But Murphy's shaking his head, “She’ll never get to her.” He utters. “She’ll bail before your friend even sees her.”

Bellamy gives him a quizzical look.

“She doesn’t like cops.” Murphy explains. “And she’s _really_ good at knowing when one’s on her tail.”

Bellamy stares. Then the realization hits him. He pulls back. Stays for a long moment. Dark eyes staring through the windshield with a somber look.

“But you can get to her.” He mutters, not looking at the kid.

“Sure got more chances.” Murphy shrugs.

The other sighs, half tiredness, half frustration. The red and blue lights are blinking in his eyes and he takes a moment to close them, attempts to soothe the imminent headache by rubbing circles over them.

Murphy frowns, an almost accusatory look in his eyes that the man fails to notice. He doesn’t know what’s suddenly keeping Bellamy back. Maybe it’s that he’s getting too involved, maybe it’s not his place to decide how they do things, or maybe Bellamy just doesn’t trust him with the only lead they’ve had so far. He swallows, doesn’t know why the thought leaves something heavy sitting on his chest.    

“Bellamy– ” He starts, because _screw it_ , he’s the reason they have a lead in the first place.

“Murphy you’ve got a _concussion_ and an almost broken shoulder!” The man utters, sounds almost frustrated, but when Murphy catches his eyes, he finds they are glowing, radiating something strange and warm and–

. . .

No longer unfamiliar.

“You should be resting.” the man grumbles, as if arguing with his own head and Murphy stares for a second, trying to work the other’s concern in his mind.

He can’t fathom how this – _him_ – could be more important than Bellamy’s case. But then again, the man has never made much sense when it came down to it. No normal person lets the thief they caught in their house hang around, and Murphy’s sure there’s _rules_ against bringing a stranger to a crime scene, especially when said stranger is a _fucking criminal_.

The thought makes him shudder. The fact that Bellamy doesn’t know. That he can never know. And for the first time, he feels like he’s betraying him just by being there. Because the man thinks he’s letting someone desperate and in need enough to steal into his house, into his life, when actually, all he’s letting in is a murderer.

Murphy gulps, shakes his head as he pulls back in his seat.  “I’ll be fine.” He mutters.

Bellamy looks at him, but doesn’t say anything.

The boy sighs in frustration, “A headache’s not gonna kill me.” He almost snaps, “At least not faster than whoever did this, kills Emori.”

The man squints, but soon gives up with a sigh. “Give me the address.” He says and catches the glimpse of a smile on the boy’s lips.

* * *

The neighbourhood Murphy leads him to is not a friendly one. Bellamy positively remembers being there himself at least a dozen times in all his years as a cop, usually answering to calls about theft or assault and, occasionally, a dead body.

The thought of going there with zero backup – and a kid he’ll need to watch over – is already starting to rile him up. It doesn’t help that it’s literally on the other side of the city, and Bellamy wants to argue that maybe Murphy shouldn’t tag along after all.

He almost suggest so, too, but the boy shuts him down before he even gets the chance to say anything.

“Don’t look so nervous, officer,” Murphy teases with a smirk, “I know those streets. We’re gonna be fine.”

To which Bellamy sighs, shakes his head like he can’t quite believe him.  “Yeah. Unless we get jumped.”

Murphy raises an eyebrow, “You still have your gun, don’t you?”

“Something tells me they’re gonna have guns too.”

The boy huffs a chuckle, eases in his seat at Bellamy’s confirmation. “Not this early.” He says. “They don’t come out until 2 or 3. Everyone’s too drunk or sleeping by then.” His voice gradually lowers, becomes darker, as if there’s a memory tightening its hold around his throat. “It makes it easier.”

Bellamy regards him for a long moment, until he remembers he still needs to keep his eyes on the road.

“Sounds like you’ve spent some time there.” He prompts a minute later.

Murphy’s looking out the window, purposefully ignoring the frown set on Bellamy’s features. “Basically grew up on streets like that.” He says, tries to leave it there, until he realizes Bellamy is still stealing quizzical glances at him.

He exhales, short and tired. “It’s the only way to keep the child services away from you.” He explains. “Or anyone else, really.”

Bellamy tilts his head, “Wouldn’t growing up there be easier?”

“Depends on where you’ll end up in the system.” Murphy says, bites his tongue as if he’s scared he let out too much.

The boy swallows, averts his glance out the window. And Bellamy suddenly understands exactly what it is that he can’t say out loud. Because Murphy would’ve never ended up with the foster services anyway. If he’d gotten caught back then, he’d be stuck into the system – the darker side of it. Would have probably gone straight to the penitentiary, survived with many more scars, if at all.  

No one would’ve been there to save him. Bellamy would’ve probably just known him as the kid who caused the fire that took a cop’s life. Just a delinquent and a murderer. Nothing more than a story that he’d drink with his colleagues over, talking about how he deserved what he got.

The thought causes his insides to turn over violently, sits heavy on his chest like a brick. “You’re probably right.” He mumbles, voice low and tight.

The silence stretches between them after that. Murphy’s stare is lost in the passing buildings and red trees and black sky. His eyelids flatter half closed and suddenly he’s feeling drained. He’s not sure what time it is, but it’s probably past eleven already.

There’s an almost full moon above their heads, and Murphy thinks if he stares long enough he might actually fall asleep. Yet the possibility sends a pang of anxiety in his gut. The rational part of his brain tries to tell him that he’s safe around Bellamy, that it wouldn’t be the first time he’d be unconscious around him anyway.

The thought turns around in his head and Murphy frowns. The previous conversation is suddenly replaying in his ears and it briefly makes him wonder if Bellamy actually knows more about him than he lets on. It sends chills down his spine, makes him weak on the knees, and Murphy eliminates the thought altogether.

Instead, he tells himself he wouldn’t want to be left behind once they got there. Alone and unconscious and trapped inside a car.

So he blinks, pulls away from the window, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes.

“How are you feeling?” asks Bellamy in his soft, deep voice that seeps all over Murphy.

“I'm fine.” The boy mumbles while holding both sides of his temple. He really isn’t. There’s a pounding headache that doesn’t seem to go away and his stomach complains each time the car takes a turn.

Murphy really wishes he was in bed right now. Then he remembers he’s lucky to even have one at the moment, and he’s pretty sure that admitting to not feeling well will only lead to Bellamy driving the opposite way. Even when they’re so close to Emori's neighbourhood now. He can’t fuck up like that.

So he sits up straight, leaning his head back in an attempt to ease the nausea.

Bellamy just sets his jaw, not bothering to vocalize how little he believes him. “So,” he starts, instead, “What did you say her name was?”

“Emori.” Murphy answers shortly. “Emori Razzera.” He mumbles.

Bellamy nods silently. “And you know her?”

Murphy tilts his head to look at him. “Yeah.” He says. “Yeah, I do.”

“You two worked together or something?” He asks, only to realize a moment later that it wasn’t received the way he intended to. He glances to the side to see Murphy eyeing him warily with a guarded look set on his features.

Bellamy bites his cheek, “I meant, is she your friend, or..?”

Murphy scoffs. “Something like that.” He says. “Haven't really seen her in a while.”

“So she still might bail if she sees you.” Bellamy teases.

“Definitely.” Murphy says with a smirk. “But I can persuade her easier than a cop could.”

“I can’t argue with that.” A smile slips on Bellamy’s lips as he glances out to his rear view mirror, and Murphy finds it contagious.

It’s a little while later that the boy speaks again. “Pull over, there. Behind the black one.” Murphy orders and Bellamy turns to look at him with a frown.

“We’re still like, six blocks away from that address.” He says.

Murphy sighs, “Do you still wanna have a car by the end of this?” He looks over at Bellamy, taking his silence and bewildered expression as affirmative. “Yeah, thought so. Pull over. We’re walking.”

* * *

When Murphy said he knew Emori, Bellamy had pictured them knocking at her door, Bellamy standing a few steps behind the smaller boy, Murphy wearing an easy smirk as he greets his friend and him having to apologetically and calmly inform her that her brother is gone. He’d even pictured alternate versions of what would happen if the girl got scared and actually _did_ try to run.

But from all of the things he’d imagined, this... This was _not_ one of them.

Bellamy grunts a sound mixed with displeasure, impatience and anxiety as he hovers above Murphy, who’s down on his knees, trying to work his fingers just right.

“Murphy–”

“Shh!” Murphy whispers harshly.

They are using the back door. _The freaking back door_. Murphy said it’d creak less. And that it leads to the storeroom, which Emori literally never uses. How he knows that, Bellamy has no idea. He’s holding his phone above the boy’s head, offering some light as he works, although all the while looking around anxiously and afraid they’ll get caught.

“This is breaking and entering!” Bellamy sounds more desperate than actually upset.

Just then, the lock clicks, and Murphy is quick to slip inside before Bellamy can stop him.

“Not if you saw some sketchy guy getting inside from the back door.” He grins at the older man.

“Murphy...” Bellamy almost whines, but the boy right out ignores him.

“I'll shout if she runs. Be ready.” Then, “Don’t shoot if she does.” He says seriously.

Bellamy frowns, raises an eyebrow, “I won’t,” He promises.

Murphy gives him a look, then nods and leaves. Bellamy sighs.

“...Obviously.” he mutters under his breath, bothered at the realization that Murphy still doesn’t trust him to not hurt anyone. In the end, he just shakes his head and turns towards the door, ready for Murphy's signal.

* * *

It’s been three minutes of complete silence. He knows because he keeps checking at his phone every half one. He thinks he hears something creak in the house and his head snaps up, eyes going wide and focusing to catch anything else. Yet it’s only silence that follows and settles in his ears once again and Bellamy clenches his jaw. Panic starts to bubble in-between his lungs; the anxiety riling him up.

It’s ten degrees outside and Bellamy’s sweating. He purses his lips, almost about to walk in himself, when, suddenly, his phone vibrates in his hand and he’s momentarily snapped out of his trance.

“It’s done.” Reads the message.

Then, not a moment later, another one comes in. “Had some help.”

Bellamy frowns at the screen. “Whose help?” he types quickly.

“You don’t know her.”

Then, “It’s safe.” Comes the reply quickly, and not in the least reassuring.

He’s about to call Monty right then and ask for an explanation, when another sound comes from inside the house and he pauses.

“Better be.” He types hastily, then shoves his phone in his pocket, eyes big and alerted and glued to the door in front of him, waiting for any indication that Murphy needs his help.

He knows he’s supposed to wait for the other’s signal, but then there’s a muffled thump somewhere on the second floor and less than a minute later, he hears steps approaching from the other side.

Images of whoever this Emori is knocking Murphy out start playing behind his eyes and his heart speeds up. It wouldn’t even be that hard, he realizes. Murphy looks like the kind of person who could go down with one blow. It’d be all the more easier now that he’s got a concussion. Emori could hit him once in the head and Murphy would be out cold. _Or worse, Murphy could be–_

Bellamy’s heart catches in his throat and he starts counting the seconds.

A door opens and then shuts. There's someone walking in the office now.

Bellamy braces himself, ready to grab whoever’s on the other side before they can make an escape.

The door swings open and all he can think of is _block the exit,_ as he jumps towards it.

“It’s empty– _Dude, what the hell?_ ”

Murphy stops himself right before he crashes into Bellamy. He takes a few quick steps back, looking more nervous than annoyed.

Then he stops, frowning when he catches the expression on the other’s face.

“You okay?” he asks.

Bellamy just stares with pupils still dilated. “What took you so long?” He utters, voice tight in the back of his throat.

“I was searching the house.” Murphy replies easily.

Bellamy looks at the dark room behind him, then back at Murphy. “And?” he asks.

The boy scoffs. “I _just_ said, it’s empty. She’s not here.” He says, but Bellamy’s watching him with concerned eyes and a frown.

“You wanna check?” he points with his thumb behind him.

Bellamy shakes his head, “We’ll just waste time.” He says. “C’mon. Let’s go home.”

Murphy huffs, lips curving into a smile, and he gives Bellamy a look, “What, you just believe me?” He closes the door behind him, then follows the taller man down the street.

Bellamy's expression breaks into a faint smirk, “I do.” He says, eyes smiling, and he waits for Murphy to catch up with him.

They're walking back to the car when Bellamy's phone chimes again with a message.

He pauses for a moment and so does Murphy, a tired look in his eyes.

Bellamy cocks an eyebrow at him then turns back down to his phone.

“What?” Murphy asks and Bellamy briefly registers that there’s something like panic mixed with the tiredness in his voice.

“That your friend?” He shows him the picture on top of the file he just received.

Murphy glances up at the picture and the fear seems to evaporate from his features. Instead, he just raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s her.” He confirms nonchalantly, then starts walking ahead.

Bellamy just tucks his phone in his pocket. A moment of silence follows and Murphy feels like there's something not right about it. “Why?” he asks.

“She’s got a colourful record.” Bellamy says without looking at him.

Murphy simply grins at that, “She does?” he queries, but doesn’t sound in the least surprised.

Bellamy just hums an affirmation. “Theft and burglary, shoplifting, a _list_ of fraud cases, assault, forgery, gun deals and last but not least, suspect for murder.”

He looks over at Murphy almost accusingly and as if expecting some sort of explanation, yet all he finds is the boy smirking and looking obviously, _utterly_ , unphased.

“Yeah, that sounds like Emori.” He snorts a chuckle, “How many times a suspect?” He asks as if they’re making small talk about the weather and Bellamy’s starting to feel uneasy.

“One.” He utters.

Murphy raises both eyebrows in surprise. “Just one?” he exclaims. “Damn she’s good.”

When he doesn’t get a response, he turns to Bellamy, who’s currently shooting him the most bewildered, disapproving, parent look he’s ever seen anyone wearing.

Murphy rolls his eyes. “C’mon. She’s not as bad as this record paints her.”

Bellamy bites his cheek, having reached the car and standing by the driver’s door. “She sounds _dangerous._ ” He utters.

“She _is._ ” Murphy affirms, cycling around to his side, and there's something about his tone that drives Bellamy even more on edge.

Murphy’s about to get in the car, but a look to the side makes his realize that Bellamy’s frowning down at him. He shuts the door closed again, the grin in his eyes giving way to something softer, and he lets out a sigh.

“Listen,” he goes, “I'm sure that even if she did kill someone then the bastard deserved it, okay? Emori's not some criminal master mind.”

“She’s still a criminal.” Bellamy retorts.

“Yeah,” Murphy tugs on his lower lip, his brows drawing together. “Everyone is until you know the whole story.” He mumbles.

“Whatever she’s done, it was just to get through the day. Emori doesn’t just go about killing innocent people.”

“It still doesn’t make it okay!” Bellamy argues, “Murphy, there are still laws.”

At that, Murphy pulls a step away from the car, and Bellamy feels he’s being sized up in the boy’s intent gaze.

“C’mon, even _you_ don’t believe that.” he utters sternly, as if he sees something in Bellamy that the man himself isn’t aware of. He wants to point out that it was him who, four days ago, decided to take in a _criminal_ instead of just turning him in.

Bellamy clenches his jaw, yet he’s not sure which possibility he’s trying to reject. That a criminal might not be a criminal after all? That they’re still a person and may even have justifiable reasons? That sometimes they can be more of a person than the one they hurt?

His brow creases and he frowns at his own thoughts.

Murphy’s expression has hardened, become closed-off, and he quickly realizes it’s not a look he ever wants to see returning to the boy’s eyes. Not because of _him_. He also realizes that it’s such a stupid thing to say to the face of someone who’s considered just as much of a criminal by the law, and not for the lightest of cases.

But before the thought can manifest for long enough in his head, Murphy's already shaking his head, lips laced with a scowl or a smirk and something like pain in his eyes.

“Bellamy, your rules don’t _exist_ in the streets.” His voice is low and quiet and tight. “If Emori's guilty of something, then that’s trying to survive another day.”

Bellamy gives Murphy a look, the fiery need to prove his point fading from his eyes and he suddenly looks too tired to keep arguing.

“Whatever.” He grumbles, then opens the door and drops into his seat.

Murphy sighs, rolls his eyes before slipping into the car himself.

He glances to the side, Bellamy looking like a begrudged child, and Murphy’s lips curl into a smile, something softer and akin to sympathy playing in his eyes.

“Remember what I told you the first day we met?” he says as they pull away from the neighbourhood.

Bellamy keeps his eyes on the road, “Besides your bright idea to mix biscuits, milk and alcohol on an empty stomach?” he goes, voice still hoarse, but Murphy can still hear the teasing smirk that’s breaking on his lips.

He huffs around a surprised smile, “Yeah, I think it was a little before that.” He says.

Bellamy shakes his head, “Been trying real hard to forget about that conversation.”

Murphy squints; something bright and playful dancing in his pale blues, “I think I handled it well.”

Bellamy turns to him, “You did.” He says honestly, his gaze landing on the boy’s lively stare, then down to his curled up lips, still cut and still bloody and red like cherries.

And Bellamy’s drawing his glance back up, Murphy following his eyes with captured interest, something soft and warm and wild settling between them, and it only feels right.

Murphy licks his lips and Bellamy drinks the motion, before the working part of his brain drags his eyes back to the road.

He has to swallow several times before he can speak again. “So what was it?” he asks, voice thick and hoarse.

Murphy gives him an once-over, smirking as he shifts his own gaze out the windshield. “When you found that knife,” he says, “I told you the streets aren’t a playground.”

“I meant that.”

Bellamy’s gaze softens, “I know.” He mutters quietly, but Murphy presses on.  
  


“You either survive, or you don’t." he says. "And that's about all the choices you get."  
  
"Law is just an obstacle you need to get through to stay alive.

You try to respect others’ struggle to live.

You don’t kill for the cash they might carry. And that's as far as civility goes.”  
  


Murphy bites the side of his tongue, eyes dark and glistening. “Not everyone follows that rule.” He mumbles, voice wavering.

Bellamy feels like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle while having barely any pieces. Like the hints he’s given into Murphy’s past aren’t nearly enough to help him understand and there's so much more he wants – he _needs_ – to know. But he's afraid the little pieces he gets will disappear if he presses too hard.

“What about the guy from earlier?” he asks in the end.

“Who, Mbege?”

Bellamy nods and Murphy breathes a short chuckle. “We basically grew up together. Different neighbourhoods so we never stepped into each other’s toes. At night we’d climb a building and share a smoke or food if there was any.”

Murphy shakes his head, a faraway look in his eyes. “He didn’t know how to read, or count. He was clumsy while shoplifting. I didn’t know how to pick a lock or hold a knife.”

He sort-of-shrugs, briefly surprised with himself that he's just spilling all that to Bellamy.

“I’ve saved his ass from other thugs a couple of times, and he's saved mine. Somehow, I guess, we just worked.”

“He sounds like a good friend.” Bellamy mutters sincerely, turning to Murphy with an almost apologetic look. “I hadn’t realized.” He says.

Murphy shakes his head like it’s not important. “Just try not to throw him against a car the next time.” He teases.

“There's gonna be a _next time_?” Bellamy grumbles miserably.

Murphy snorts at the mock exasperation in his voice.

Then his brows pull together and he tugs nervously on his bottom lip.

“So,” he says, “We’re good?”

“We’re good.” Bellamy promises, lips curving into a soft smile as he stares at the younger boy. “Lie back for a while. We still got twenty minutes till we get home.”

“Getting tired of me already.” Murphy jokes with a smirk, gladly obeying and hoping his head will finally stop pounding.

As he looks out the window, the trees and buildings start to blur and blend together. Images and incoherent sounds are circling behind his eyelids and he doesn’t even realize when everything begins to fade to black.

* * *

He doesn’t think he's half as alarmed as he'd normally be when Bellamy wakes him up almost half an hour later.

Yet he figures he must've been quite alarmed, judging by the look on Bellamy’s face and the pain spreading in his back.

He realizes he is backed against the door, and Bellamy’s holding up his hands in an attempt to show he means no harm.

“Murphy. It’s okay.” He hears him say, evidently having repeated it multiple times already.

Murphy wants to respond, wants to tell Bellamy he's fine. He's _trying_ to get a word out, but his tongue is tied in a knot and his eyes are wide and he's shaking and he _can’t._

He sees Bellamy’s hands, he _knows_ it’s Bellamy’s hands in front of him, but everything’s shifting and transforming and becoming different hands, _bigger_ hands, hands that are sometimes just too many, tugging at his clothes and his skin and Murphy’s just _lying_ there cause those are the rules to survival.

He shuts his eyes, gathers a steadying breath as he reopens them and _Bellamy’s_ there and his hands are _not_ touching him, _not_ coming any closer.

“I won't hurt you.” He's saying. “ _Murphy,_ ” and it sounds like a plea.

“Hey, look at me. Look at me.” And Murphy _does_ and suddenly everything comes into focus, _Bellamy_ comes into focus and he starts to breath again.

“It’s alright,” he soothes, “You’re okay.” His eyes are wide but his voice is deep and warm and steady and _guiding_ Murphy to the surface.

“You're safe.”

Murphy gulps, looking away as he tries to pull himself back to the present. He's struggling to get his muscles to work, to pull away from the door and, slowly, he manages.

He settles in his seat, body still tensed and rigid, but at least he’s coming back, the colour returning to his skin.

“Are you alright?” he hears Bellamy asking from beside him, never moving anywhere near him.

Murphy takes a moment to get rid of the bile in his throat, to get his tongue to untangle and his brain to slow down enough to form words.

“I'm fine.” Is all he manages to mutter in the end, his voice hoarse and tight and breaking.

Bellamy decides to outright ignore it.

“What happened?” he presses, while still giving Murphy all the space and time he needs to answer.

After a long moment, the boy shakes his head just barely enough for Bellamy to catch the movement.

“Nothing happened.” He says, “I'm fine, really.” He sweeps under his nose, his hand still trembling. He quickly clenches it into a fist, pulls it back down in his lap.

“You don’t look fine.” Bellamy says quietly. The other never seems to answer.

“Murphy–”

“Bellamy, it doesn’t matter!” the boy snaps, still too shaken to actually raise his voice.

When the surge of anger passes, he's shaking worse than before, his knees actually trembling; thousand tiny needles prickling at his hands, and he has trouble breathing down the air again.

“I'm sorry.” He chokes, eyes drawn downcast.

“It’s okay.” Bellamy hushes. “Wanna tell me what happened?” he asks.

“It’s no big deal.” Murphy mutters.

“You thought you were somewhere else.” Bellamy states and the boy looks up at him in surprise and alarm. Then his expression drops, either in acceptance or affirmation, and he looks away from the older man.

Bellamy’s eyes soften and he treads carefully. As if afraid that Murphy might break and crumble before him if he pressures on the wrong places.

“Same thing happened two days ago, right? Yesterday, too.” He tries gently. “What’s wrong?”

A long minute of silence goes by and Bellamy’s holding his breath.

“Murphy.” He calls softly and the boy’s gaze lowers to his hands.

He breathes quietly, eyes glistening, and he can't get rid of the sting in the back of his throat. He raises his head, his gaze glazed and distant, but it doesn't stay for longer than a gulp. It drops back down to his trembling hands.

“I was, um…” he tugs nervously on his lip, takes in a shaky breath. “I was fourteen.” He says, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know– I didn’t know I could have my own rules. So I followed theirs.”

He sucks on his cheek, biting down hard until the taste of blood reaches his tongue, forcing his tears to subside.

“They would, um… They'd get you in a car. They'd,” he chokes, his cheeks burning hot, “They’d cover your eyes. Usually put a bag over your head. It smelled awful. Made it hard to breathe. Sometimes they'd, uh,” A tight scowl is stretching on his lips and Bellamy’s feeling sick.

“They'd stick needles in you. So you never knew where you’d end up, or with who. You just knew that by the end of it, you'd have enough money to survive for a few days.”

Murphy chuckles. A hollow sound that rings in the small space between them. “It was uh, it wasn’t a fun experience.” He tugs on his earlobe, looking anxious, _afraid_ , underneath the fragile mask, his eyes not once raising towards Bellamy.

“After a while the lines start to get blurry.” His voice sounds wrong and Bellamy’s staring at him in horror.

“There’s no rules in the streets.”

“What happened.” Bellamy rasps and a part of him screams that he doesn’t want to know.

“Word gets around.” says Murphy. “They don’t always give you a choice. Sometimes they just shove you in a car in the middle of day, or chase you in a corner.

Bellamy feels like there's not enough air in the car, _he can't breathe,_ “Murphy, that’s–”

“I _know_ what it is, okay?” he says, but there's no anger in his voice. Just tiredness. “I told you. Things are different in the streets.”

“It doesn’t make it okay.” Bellamy repeats himself from earlier.

This time, Murphy frowns. “Maybe.” He mutters.

Then, “It stopped after a while.” He says, and there’s something dark in his voice that Bellamy’s not ready to explore.

“Your clothes were bloody the first night I found you.” He points out instead. “You were quite bruised, too.”

Murphy chuckles softly, “Yeah,” he draws, “I guess there's always someone who will just beat you up for fun.”

Silence stretches for a while, sitting heavily between them.

  
“So,” Murphy starts. “That’s what happened. More or less.”

_What are you going to do with that? What are you going to do with **me**?_

  
“How can I help?”

_How do you recover from something like that?_

  
“You don’t have to.” _You can't,_ a voice inside him screams, but he ignores it. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

  
Bellamy gives a little nod. Sets his jaw.

“I won't hurt you.” He promises.

“You sure say that a lot.” replies Murphy, and he’s not sure how he's suddenly feeling so brave – whether it’s the tiredness or the concussion talking. Maybe it’s just the fact that Bellamy now knows what he is – part of it, at least – and he’s _still_ not kicked him out of the car.

The man shoots him a surprised look, like he wouldn’t expect Murphy to still be making jokes.

“Jesus, Bellamy.” He snorts softly. “You better not start treating me like some kicked puppy, alright?”

The man sighs, but he never gets a reply. To be honest, he wasn’t really expecting one.

The clock above the radio is shining a deep blue – the only source of light in the vehicle – and it shows just a few minutes after midnight. Bellamy spends a moment staring at it, then he turns to Murphy.

“Wanna get inside?” he asks.

 _Do you **want** me inside?_ Murphy gulps, “Yeah, fine.” He says. “It’s fucking freezing in here.”

* * *

“So what do we do about Emori?” Murphy asks once they're inside the house and Bellamy has to take a moment to realize that he's _completely_ jumped from the previous subject.

He sighs, tries to follow the boy’s example, but it’s easier said than done.

Suddenly, Murphy’s standing in front of him, holding out the leather jacket, and his thoughts come to a halt.

“No, keep it.” He says.

Murphy raises his eyebrows in surprise, “Wait, seriously?”

“Your jacket’s in the trash, remember? Besides,” he shrugs, “It suits you.”

Murphy looks at the jacket in his hands, then back at Bellamy. “Thanks.” He mutters.

The other just nods in acknowledgement as he shrugs off his own black denim.

Murphy’s already heading towards the living-room, but Bellamy stops outside the kitchen.

“You hungry?” he calls out.

They boy turns around, seems to take a moment to consider it. “Nah,” he just shakes his head in the end, “Just wanna lie down.”

“Alright.” Bellamy nods and follows behind him.

He turns on the fireplace and the floor lamp in the corner, then helps Murphy sit down. When the boy goes to bend over to untie his shoes, Bellamy stops him.

“I got it.” He says, and Murphy’s swallowing his tongue, cheeks burning red.

“Thanks.” He mumbles quietly.

“Wait here.”

Bellamy leaves, then returns with a glass of water and two pills.

“Painkillers.” He explains when Murphy glances at them quizzically and the boy takes them gratefully.

“I could put out an APB.” He suggests, placing Murphy’s glass on the table and sitting in the sofa across from him.

The other shakes his head. “It’s only gonna scare her off. Whoever killed Otan might not even know he had a sister. We’d be putting a target on her back.” He reasons.

Bellamy agrees with a sigh, “What was her relation to drugs?”

“Nonexistent.” says Murphy. “She’s always stayed away. Her brother obviously had a different idea. But whatever he was up to, Emori was definitely filled in. It’s how they did things.”

Bellamy rests his arms on his knees. “So she could know who he was dealing with.”

“Or at least where they were meeting.” Murphy shrugs.

A moment later, he takes a breath. “I might have an idea,” he says.

Bellamy looks at him, “You know somewhere else she could be?”

“No.” He says. “But I know somebody who can find out for us.”

“It’s gonna cost you though.”

The man cocks an eyebrow. “Who is it?”

Murphy pauses. “His name’s Craze.” He says in the end.

“Can he be trusted?”

Murphy snorts, “He can be if you're paying him. I mean, he got us the tip about the plates.”

Bellamy sighs. “Fine. As long as we find her. How do we talk to him?”

Murphy smirks. “Give me your phone.” He says, and Bellamy obliges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it and that your soul is still intact! And yay! Craze will be finally introduced properly, I love him!
> 
>    
>  **Also this has probably a series of mistakes cause I was sleeping on the keyboard while editting so PLEASE just notify me about anything you notice!**
> 
> **Don't forget to kudos and comment!**  
>  See you on the other side!


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